Compassion
by wsherlocksholmes
Summary: Sherlock and John live together again with John's daughter after Mary's death. Together they must find a way to stop Moriarty. Takes place after season 3. Features Johnlock.
1. Murder

Chapter One

"Sherlock!" John protested. "Sherlock, you can't just accuse little old ladies of multiple murders when you know perfectly well that Mrs. Wimbledon is innocent!"

"Well why not?" Sherlock demanded.

John gave an exasperated sigh. Beneath that mass of luscious dark curls was a brilliant mind that never ceased to amaze him. And yet, it was amazing how little that mind seemed to know about human nature. It was a mind in a man that had been called coldhearted, egotistical, and some harsher words as well. But John knew better than the gossip shrouding the mysterious man.

Beneath those curls was a mind racing at the speed of light, a mind trying persistently to solve the mysteries of the universe with his remarkable sense of logic while simultaneously making Sherlock Holmes himself another of the universe's mysteries.

"Because it's not right," Lestrade said bluntly, exhausted with Sherlock's antics.

"Well it was effective," Sherlock said, dismissing the man's comment.

"Sherlock, remember what we talked about," John muttered in his companion's ear. His nose tickled as it brushed against the long hair.

Lavender. He had been using John's shampoo again. John rolled his eyes, unsurprised. It seemed Sherlock borrowed everything the doctor owned without regard to privacy or personal boundaries.

"Emotions, feelings," Sherlock began, waving his arms in a dramatic manner. "Ridiculousness of the simple mind!"

"You know, I'm still waiting for you to be one of the bodies I find at a crime scene," remarked Lestrade.

"Oh no, I'm simply too intelligent for the average killer."

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "Compassion, remember?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Yes, compassion. Right. 'Challenge yourself by trying to understand people on an emotional level.' It's not a challenge, John, it's a nuisance!"

"Well for it not being a challenge you sure seem to be struggling at it," John deadpanned.

Sherlock turned to him with cold blue eyes. "There is a murderer out there. I don't have time for feelings and compassion."

"No, you never do, do you?" John replied, cocking his head to the side in question. When Sherlock turned back to the dead body lying in a puddle of dried blood on the asphalt, John shook his head. He slipped under the police tape and walked away at a brisk pace, refusing to look back.

Lestrade shook his head. "Problems at home?" he asked, crouching down to inspect the gash on the victim's forehead.

Sherlock watched the retreating outline of Doctor John Watson, storming his way through the midday streets of London. "He doesn't approve of my methods. He's rather bitter lately."

"And you don't think it has anything to do with you I'm guessing?"

Sherlock looked down at Lestrade. "Why would it?" he asked, furrowing his forehead.

"You know, Sherlock, for a genius you can be quite dense."

* * *

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock called, throwing open the door. "Mrs. Hudson... oh shut up!"

"Sherlock, you can't tell a baby to shut up!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, appearing in the foyer with a crying infant in her arms. "She's tired. Or hungry. Or upset. Who knows? She's a baby."

"Mrs. Hudson, I need John and I can't think with all that noise!"

"I haven't seen John dear, but why don't you try playing that violin of yours to calm her down? You know how she likes it."

"I don't have time, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said with unveiled annoyance. "I have dead bodies waiting for me."

"And you have a crying baby here for you," Mrs. Hudson said, passing off the child into his arms. "Now don't you roll your eyes at me, Sherlock. I'm your landlady, not your nanny."

"Besides," she mumbled, "I need a joint." Mrs. Hudson walked off, holding her head in one hand and leaving Sherlock uncomfortably bouncing the still screaming child in his arms.

Sherlock looked down at the scrunched red face. Beneath the squeezed-shut eyelids were startling blue eyes. Mary's eyes. Sherlock sighed with regret. He had promised, vowed, to protect all three of them. And he had tried so hard. But childbirth complications were not his area of expertise, despite having many areas of expertise. He couldn't save Mary. He could only try to console John in the best ways he knew how.

Regret was an unnatural feeling for Sherlock. Any form of emotion was rather unnatural for him. He separated himself from emotion and human connection, and was quite good at it too. But then this man named John Watson needed a roommate and a place to live, and Sherlock needed an assistant for his cases. And despite being a high-functioning sociopath, it hurt like hell to leave him behind for two years. And it hurt even more to return to a different man.

The John he had first met was a soldier who had seen enough dead bodies for a lifetime and craved the thrill of seeing more. He lived for the chaos, just like Sherlock, anxious to dive into the mysteries of London. But when he returned from his two-year stint at being dead, he returned to a different man. A different John Watson. This man was broken, held together by the woman he rested on, Mary. This man had seen another dead body too many and had finally snapped inside. He had spent too many days in the cemetery, looking at a secretly empty grave with glazed-over eyes and a sickening weight in his chest.

He had not returned to an eccentric John Watson. He had returned to a John Watson who had erased Sherlock Holmes from his mind to cope and move on, eventually into the arms of the future Mrs. Watson. And now it was reversed, with a dead body that wasn't coming back to life and a less compassionate person to lean on. Mary's death had been an inconvenience to Sherlock, but it was more than that. He genuinely missed her cheeky comments and the way she teased John. He even missed her emotional outbursts attributed to the hormonal imbalance that was part of pregnancy. Mostly he missed the way John smiled while she was still alive.

Sherlock rocked the baby in his arms as he took her upstairs to her cradle. With his foot he gently swayed the infant to the rhythm of the melancholy tune wailing from his violin, watching the fussing slow as he lulled her into sleep.

* * *

John slowed his pace five blocks from the crime scene as his frustration slowly dissipated. Sherlock Holmes was not human; he was a machine incapable of sorrow or emotional pain or the struggles of the human spirit that plagued John every day since his wife's death. Sometimes it was so easy to believe the stigma surrounding the man.

And yet, John knew him better than that. He saw the way his hands trembled at Mary's funeral even though he held a stoic face. He heard him wake with a groan at odd hours of the night to soothe the baby's cries, alternating shifts with John without a word. He was unbearable at times, many times, but he was also John's best friend.

And it was the insane Sherlock Holmes who kept John afloat. It was his joking humor that was first able to pull a smile from what had seemed to be a permanent frown. It was with the assistance of Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson that he was able to care for his daughter. And this time it was Sherlock holding John together, keeping his mind occupied with case after case, keeping him away from the bottles that had been calling his name.

But dammit, lately it was hard to put up with Sherlock Holmes. Compassion. John had given a speech to him about compassion.

* * *

"Sherlock, I know you have your ways, but you must remember to be compassionate."

"Compassion. What does compassion have to do with anything?"

"Compassion is what people do, Sherlock. I don't know if anyone told you this before, but people have these things called feelings. And they're... No, don't you roll your eyes at me. Shut up and listen. People have feelings and they're important. Feelings and compassion were the difference between Mary putting a bullet through your brain and a bullet through your abdomen. And when you investigate on cases, remember some compassion, because a lot of the people we talk to have taken a bullet to the heart."

"If they had a bullet in their heart they'd be dead John, and despite rumors that I'm 'crazy,' I don't talk to dead people."

"Jesus, Sherlock, it's a bloody metaphor! Don't ruin the metaphor!"

Sherlock stared back at him for a while, his gaze unwavering. "John," he asked softly. "Did Mary put a bullet in your heart?"

John looked at his friend, speechless, until his vision started blurring and he left the room.

* * *

John had two bullet holes in his heart. One was scarred over after bleeding for two years. The other was fresh still. And what made the wound ache most was the struggle it took to hold his baby girl and look into those familiar blue eyes. It pained him to see Mary's features in the infant's face. Some days he could not hold her at all. Some days he stayed in bed, hidden under the covers, hiding from the reality of the world.

Those were the days that living with Sherlock was most difficult.

* * *

"Dammit, John, wake up!" Sherlock shoved the motionless mass beneath the covers. "John, Lucy just won't stop crying! You're her father! Bloody hell, get up and do something!"

Sherlock pulled the quilt away from John's face. Lifeless eyes peered out, staring mindlessly at nothing in particular. "John I have cases and clients and it's not my screaming baby!"

John continued to stare with glazed eyes.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson called. "Sherlock, is John getting up?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, he's staying in bed like a bum and can't even take care of his own bloody daughter! For Christ's sake John, it's been four months now!" Sherlock stood by the bedside, waiting for a response that would not come before storming off to care for Lucy's needs.

* * *

"No John today?" Lestrade asked, looking up from the body on the ground to see Sherlock approach. "By the way, you're quite late."

Sherlock glided over to stand beside the crouched detective. "He won't get out of bed," he said bluntly. "The victim was a uniformed worker, by the looks of it bank teller. Approximately 27 years in age, and..."

"Hold, hold on a moment," Lestrade interrupted, holding up a hand. "He won't get out of bed?"

"Yes, and it made me quite late. I had to heat bottles and change diapers," replied Sherlock as he wrinkled his nose. "As I was saying..."

"Sherlock, doesn't that worry you?"

"Should it? It has become a regular habit."

"For Christ's sake Sherlock. Yes, it should concern you! The man won't get out of bed to care for his own daughter, that's a problem."

"So what do I do? You know I don't do well with anything involving... Feelings."

"Yeah, I've noticed. Does he see a bloody therapist?"

"No, he just... Lies there."

"Well dammit Sherlock, the man's wife died and he's clearly depressed! It doesn't take a genius to know that he should see a bloody therapist!"

Sherlock's gaze wandered to the distance. He stood still, contemplating Greg's words. "There was an affair with the boss. The wife did it," he announced. With that, he spun on his heel and raised his collar, leaving the scene.

"Where the hell are you going?" Lestrade called out.

"To find the best damn therapist in London," Sherlock replied without breaking stride or looking back.

* * *

13:18 - Get dressed.

13:24 - You're going out.

13:28 - John answer your damn phone

13:29 - You're going to a therapist.

13:30 - And not that awful one you saw before. Top notch this time.

13:35 - Dammit John I'm trying to be compassionate so answer the bloody phone.

Sherlock stared at the cell screen, waiting for a reply. It never came.

* * *

"John, John dear. I've noticed recently that some of my, ah, painkillers for my hip have gone missing. Do you know anything about that?" Mrs. Hudson scurried into his bedroom, expecting a reply.

John remained motionless in bed, staring at the wall. His phone beeped but he didn't even flinch.

"Oh John dear," Mrs. Hudson whispered. She sat on the edge of his bed and began stroking his silvered hair, looking more gray than silver recently. "I'll go fix you a cuppa," she said, bounding off towards the kitchen. "And you should really answer that phone of yours. It's nonstop ringing."

John made no movement.

* * *

Sherlock burst through the door of 221 Baker Street. "Oh Sherlock, you're just in time to change Lucy's diaper!" Mrs. Hudson piped.

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson! I'm quite busy at the moment."

"Well you look to me like you have time to change a diaper!" Sirens blared as a police car pulled up to the home. "Oh Sherlock, what is it now?" she sighed.

"I told you Mrs. Hudson, I'm busy!" he replied as he climbed the steps two at a time, followed by two officers.

They burst into John's bedroom. "There, see? The man needs help."

"I thought you said there was a man shot in the heart..." one of the officers said, scratching his head. "He looks alive to me."

"Yes, well," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes upward. "It's a metaphor. Don't ruin the metaphor."

John sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" He turned to the two men standing awkwardly behind the detective. "Why the hell are you in my room?"

"Um, you don't happen to require medical assistance, do you sir?" one of the men asked uncomfortably.

"No, I do not," John growled. "Now get the hell out!"

The officers scampered out of the room as John turned to face Sherlock. "What the hell was that?"

"Compassion, John. You've been shot in the heart. You need assistance."

"Well I sure as hell don't need it from you!"

In the background Lucy started crying. "For Christ's sake Sherlock, look what you did now!"

"John I... I was only trying to help. Therapy. That's what you need."

"What I need is for you to stay the hell away from me!"

John's fits were clenched and quivering with anger. Sherlock lifted a brow in confusion. Maybe the ambulance had been somewhat extravagant, but John was fuming and looked ready to snap in a moment. The last time Sherlock saw him this upset, he was thrown to the ground in the middle of a restaurant as Mary tried to pull John off.

"I won't pretend to understand human emotions, but I do believe you are overreacting. And I'm the one who's supposed to overreact. We already established that pattern." Sherlock watched as John's face continued to redden with anger, still uncertain of the frustration. "Did I... miscalculate something?"

"Miscalculate?" John whispered, barely holding back the rage coursing through his blood. "You think this is a... miscalculation?" John looked away and took a deep, ragged breath before continuing. "Sherlock, do you have any idea why I want to murder you right now?"

"Murder me? I try to show this compassion you preach about and you want to murder me?"

"Yes, and you sure as hell make it sound more appealing each time you open your mouth."

"I..."

"No! Shut up! Do you remember when you pissed me off at that crime scene two weeks ago?"

"Well yes, I remember everything." _And then you started staying in bed for periods at a time... _he began calculating in his head.

"Well, I went to a café to relax, and you want to know what was delivered with my tea? _This_." John turned behind him and pulled a handwritten letter from beneath his pillowcase. With a shaking hand he gave it to Sherlock, who took it cautiously, studying John's face before lowering his gaze to read.

"Oh. Oh, _fuck,_" Sherlock whispered. He looked up to see tears streaming from John's eyes.

"We killed her. We killed her Sherlock," John choked out, then began sobbing uncontrollably.


	2. Banned

Moriarty was supposed to be dead. Sherlock had seen it with his own eyes. The trigger pulled, sending a bullet into his skull, splattering blood. He shot himself, forcing Sherlock to jump. Keeping him away for two years. Away from London. Away from John.

John. It crushed John.

Sherlock prided himself on his superior intellect. And then came Moriarty, the villain to his fairytale. But Sherlock Holmes had never created the life of a fairytale for himself. He was a highly functioning sociopath, not a hero. He was not born for that role.

Jim Moriarty was mad. Sherlock was not homicidal. He had no desire to kill. It was only his vow and his deep desire to protect John Watson that guided the bullet from the pistol in his hand to the brain of Magnusson. Moriarty, however, craved playing fatal games with the simpleminded, and testing the intellect of the proclaimed genius Sherlock Holmes. "That's what they do. People DIE!"

But not Jim Moriarty, no. He was alive, taunting the detective once again. He had aimed guns at Sherlock's chest. He had strapped John with explosives. He had threatened the lives of John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if Sherlock did not jump to his supposed death.

But his message was clear now. He was done with the teasing. He was ready to act, to pull the trigger, to set off the explosions. And to prove it, he had taken Mary's life.

"It was really quite simple," the letter read. "Everyone has their pressure point, and everyone has their price. Give them money or consequences and they're all puppets, and I'm the master who knows what strings to pull."

Mary had been murdered.

* * *

John had struggled with the leaden words in the letter, weighing him down and sinking him into his mattress. He knew it wasn't Sherlock's fault. But it was hard to know his association with his best friend had killed his wife. Sherlock rose from the dead and Mary fell into her grave. And the question pounded in his mind: Sherlock or Mary? It was hard to swallow the fact that he could not have both; only one. It was a decision he would never be able to make on his own.

But he didn't have to. Moriarty had made it for him.

Moriarty. The name was acid on his tongue, fire in his veins. The man who had taken his best friend away from him for two years. Two fucking years of visiting an empty grave. And such a long time of wondering whether or not tomorrow was worth greeting. This man was keen on taking everything from John's life. Everything he valued. Because it was simply a sick game to him.

There were men who found thrill in life's chaos, like John and Sherlock. Then there were those who found thrill in birthing mayhem.

* * *

"John, I... I'm so sorry." Sherlock's words were a whisper. His deep voice sounded pained, and his sharp gray eyes shimmered with brimming tears.

John looked at the man built of stone and saw the cracks that had formed. He watched him sit down, fumbling to make sure he landed in the chair, as his hands gave the slightest hint of a tremor that caused the letter to quiver ever so slightly.

"Sherlock, I, uh, hadn't meant to blame it on you. I just thought, well, it's likely a trap. He's trying to draw you in. And I can't..." John's voice cracked. Clearing his throat, he finished "and I can't lose you. Not again. Not you as well."

He had been looking at his clasped hands while talking, but now dared to glance upwards into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock stared back with an unwavering gaze. He stood up.

"I'm not very good with this compassion thing you preach," he said. "But I promised you I'd try." He walked over to John and stood before him, looking expectantly. John's eyebrows knit together in question.

"Well don't just sit there, stand up," Sherlock commanded. John hesitatingly obliged. Sherlock awkwardly wrapped his arms around John and held him close.

After the few seconds of initial shock wore off, John let himself collapse in his friend's warm embrace. He rested his head upon his chest, feeling the rise and fall and hearing the quick beating of the heart. John could breathe in Sherlock's warmth, his life, and his deodorant that smelled suspiciously like John's. He could even smell the lavender wafting from the dark curls.

Sherlock held John slightly tighter and John reveled in the human comfort. His heartbeat slowed as he finally relaxed in a welcomed embrace. The pounding of Sherlock's heart quickened before he suddenly pulled away.

"I have work to do," he said, stone-faced once again. He twirled around to grab his coat and leave.

"Where are you going?" John asked.

"I have a case to attend. Dead bodies are waiting."

"Should I come?" John asked, fumbling around and trying to remember where he put his coat.

An infant's cry sliced through the heavy silence that had quickly suffocated the room. "I think Lucy needs care," Sherlock said quickly as he rushed down the stairs and out the door.

* * *

"Brother dear, this better be important," Mycroft drawled into the phone.

"Well I'm certainly not calling you to ask how your dreadfully dull life is going, brother dear," Sherlock replied.

"You'll be pleased to know I'm still alive and still successful. Now what do you want."

"Moriarty's head," Sherlock said flatly.

"Sherlock, your recent homicidal tendencies are a bit startling."

"I told you, I shot him because he was going to kill Mary."

"Yes, Sherlock, but next time try not to shoot an unarmed man who had been vital to the government."

Sherlock scoffed. "The man wanted to blackmail you as well, brother. You should be thanking me."

"Get to your point already; why did you call me and interrupt my lovely slice of cake?"

"Moriarty. Have you found him yet?"

"I told you I would call when we located him. This is a waste of my time."

"He's in London, Mycroft. He's rebuilt his network. And..." Sherlock cleared his throat, then choked out, "and he killed Mary."

"Mary died in childbirth," Mycroft said with slight uncertainty.

"I've read a letter telling of a maternity team bribed to ensure complications occurred."

"Dammit, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, his usual calm demeanor waning. "Does John know?"

"John's the one who received the letter," Sherlock whispered, then cleared his throat. "Mycroft, I need you to strengthen the manhunt. He's not after me alone this time. He's taking collateral damage."

"Sherlock, we're doing all we..."

"Dammit Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted. "Do more! He's trying to weaken me by taking away the small handful of people in this whole bloody world whose lives I actually value! Mary is gone, Mycroft! And who's next? Lestrade? Molly? Mrs. Hudson?"

The phone was shaking in his hand. Sherlock took a deep breath and said, "John?"

"Sherlock, I can't move resources for personal matters."

"Bloody hell, Mycroft! I'm too smart for your bullshit! We both know you can and you better damn do so. And what if he decides to go after my dear brother, what then? Do I tell mum that Mikey died because he wouldn't let his brother Sherlock ON THE CASE?"

"Is that what you want, to be back on the case?"

"And secret supervision of Molly and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and John at all times."

"You do remember why you were taken off the case, don't you?"

"Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes, I remember everything. Really, Mycroft, can we drop the stupid questions and remember I have a key to your house and quite a few homeless friends who wouldn't mind a stay?"

"Sherlock..."

"Put me on the case, Mycroft. I need this."

"Fine, only so you don't waste more of my time. But I do have a question first. Are you asking me now because you've missed the thrill you get from these things, or because you're seeking vengeance for John?"

Sherlock flipped the phone shut.

* * *

John was walking back from the store with a bag of baby diapers and formula hoisted in his left arm. A long black car pulled up beside him as he waited to cross at the intersection. He sighed as the rear window rolled down and a dark haired woman stuck out her head.

John rolled his head. "I hope we're going somewhere nice this time," he complained. "I could use a cup of tea in a nice, cozy café if it's not such an inconvenience."

The door swung open and John climbed into the car.

* * *

"I really was hoping for a café this time. Maybe a restaurant?" John questioned.

"I'm really not a fan of noisy places crowded with average people and their boring conversations," Mycroft replied.

"So I see you're a fan of abandoned tube tunnels," John deadpanned.

"Yes." Mycroft's menacing smile stretched across his face. "We need to have another conversation about my dear brother."

"He's been rather boring lately for him. Just following Lestrade around like a lost puppy and solving simple cases. He hasn't taken any clients in months," John rattled.

"Yes, well, there's probably something going on in that head of his that's convinced him to do so. While that would normally seem troublesome, we have a bigger problem at hand."

"Is... Is he found? Do you know where he is? What he's planned?" John looked with pleading eyes, nearly begging Mycroft to reveal any answers with his voice.

But Mycroft didn't have answers. "No. Sherlock has requested to be placed on the case again."

"But, but I thought he said he left the case because he didn't want to 'participate in Moriarty's boring games.'"

"Did he? How vain of him. Well regardless of his ego and lies, Sherlock is in great danger."

"Are you saying he was kicked off the case?"

"I think the phrase we had used was 'banned,'" Mycroft replied. "As I was saying, now that he is back on the case I fear his life is in jeopardy. Moriarty..."

"Banned? Why the hell was he banned?"

"John, please stop interrupting. Moriarty is out for blood. More specifically, Sherlock's blood. I need you to watch over him. Stop him from doing anything drastic. And preferably, keep him distant from the case. It was hard enough sending him to his death the last time. This time I fear death is inevitable if he's not careful."

"Hold on, I think you lost me. You sent your brother to his death?" The disbelief on John's face was evident.

"Well, almost. I thought you knew." Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"No, I don't know. Care to elaborate?"

"The plane, John. Sherlock was being sent on an M6 mission."

"Yes, and he said it'd be over in six months. Then he'd be back."

"Be back? No, John, in six months he would've been dead."

"And, and you sent your own brother on this mission."

"It was that or the death penalty," Mycroft replied. "I thought I would buy him some time, and hopefully London would miss him enough to dismiss his murder charges. But then Moriarty made his move."

"As if he knew Sherlock's death was coming, and it wouldn't be at his hands," John thought aloud.

"Precisely. Moriarty is seeking vengeance, John, and only Sherlock's blood will satisfy him."

* * *

John burst through the door of 221 Baker Street. "Where the hell is Sherlock?" he shouted. A baby's cry replied.

"John, John dear! We just got her to nap," Mrs. Hudson protested, rushing to greet him.

"Where is Sherlock?" John asked, breathing heavily, face red with rage.

"He's upstairs, dear," Mrs. Hudson answered. "He was just playing the violin to put Lucy to sleep."

John climbed up the steps, two at a time, and burst into the room containing his daughter's cradle and Sherlock Holmes with a violin tucked under his chin.

"Really, John, I thought you'd be more considerate of your own baby. I just got her to sleep and now she's wailing again. It's quite difficult to think anymore."

John stormed up to his friend and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "Why the fuck didn't you tell me?" he screamed.

"Tell you what?" Sherlock said calmly, placing his violin down. "And for God's sake, quiet down. You're disturbing the baby."

"M6. Six months. And you didn't tell me?" John was fuming, his hands shaking as they grasped Sherlock's shirt.

"I told you I was going on a mission that would last six months. What else was there to tell?"

"Don't lie to me Sherlock! Mycroft told me! He told me, six months and you were going to be dead. For real this time! And you didn't tell me!"

"John, I didn't think it was something you should know."

"You're my best friend, and you were just going to leave me again?" John's anger broke into a sob as tears began streaming down his face. "Sherlock, I lost you once before. And it was hell. Hell. I... I can't lose you again, and you didn't even let me say a proper goodbye."

Sherlock stood up and removed John's hands from his shirt. "John," he whispered, still holding his hands. "You didn't lose me though. I'm still here."

"But what if Moriarty hadn't sent that message? What if you really left? And I didn't get to say goodbye?"

"Would your goodbye have been different if you knew I was heading to my death?" Sherlock asked.

John sobbed loudly and looked up into his friend's eyes. They were a stormy gray color today, beautiful and unnerving. He was vulnerable under that stare, unable to hide from the intellect behind those eyes that analyzed his every move. There was no use in lying to Sherlock, or pretending.

"Yes," he choked out. "It would've."

"John, you had Mary and a baby coming. I... I couldn't tell you. We both know, you would try coming for me. And I couldn't do that to you or Mary. And I certainly couldn't burden you with the knowledge of my impending death. Besides, we all die eventually. It's just a matter of time."

"I... I would've saved you if I had to. Somehow. I would've. You said it yourself, Sherlock, I save lives. But dammit, why can't I save the lives of the one's I love?" John pulled his hands out of Sherlock's and wrapped his arms around him as he leaned his head into Sherlock's chest, breathing in the comforting familiarity of his smell as his tears soaked his shirt.

Sherlock uncomfortably rubbed John's back, assuming that was what John would want. Compassion. "I don't know," he whispered into John's ear, his lips just brushing against the man's skin. "I don't know."

John stifled another sob and pulled back. He reached into the crib to rock the crying baby in his arms. "One more question, Sherlock," he managed in a cracked voice. "What's the real reason you were off the Moriarty case?"


	3. Deal with the Devil

A Deal with the Devil - Chapter 3

John sat at the table with Lucy in his arms and a bottle in his hand. Before him was a bowl of oatmeal, untouched, that had once been warm. His eyes fluttered, barely able to suppress the sleep attempting to blanket him. Coffee. What he needed was lots and lots of coffee.

"Morning," Sherlock announced as he strolled into the kitchen in his robe. He rumbled through the refrigerator before settling on orange juice, then opened a cabinet and pasted on his daily nicotine patches. John said nothing in reply.

"Are we still not talking today?" Sherlock questioned as he sat down across from John, who simply glared back at him.

* * *

"Hello, Sherlock. Oh how I've missed you."

"What do you want," Sherlock responded through gritted teeth.

"I want a lot of things, Sherlock."

"What do you want with me."

"No hello? You're not going to ask how I am? That's really quite rude of you."

"I did kill a man. Unfortunately, some people thought he mattered. I guess I don't have the best manners."

"Is that supposed to be a threat? I'm quivering."

"What do you want? This isn't a game."

"That's where you're wrong. That's exactly what this is. A game. My game, to be more specific," Moriarty grinned. "Too bad you didn't see me in the Crown's Jewels, because in this game, I am the queen, and you are nothing but a pawn."

"You're forgetting that I like to beat you at your own games," Sherlock bragged. "I survived your last game. I took down your network. I made you into nothing."

"Oh dear Sherlock, you're forgetting I'm _back_," Moriarty whispered menacingly. "What have you really done? Absolutely nothing. I survived too, Sherlock. I am the _brain_, I am the _gamemaker_, and you? You are nothing. I have more networks than you will ever know about. But you can't kill the system until you kill the brain, and well, you're quite good at failing at that, aren't you?"

"What's stopping me from putting a bullet in you right now?" Sherlock threatened.

"I'd say a bullet into John Watson," Moriarty replied, folding his hands in his lap. "Kill me, and you kill him too. Will that blood on your hands matter? And, do tell, where is your faithful companion? Not here, no. Not on Baker Street anymore." Moriarty leaned in, whispering, "Do you miss him, Sherlock? You can tell me. It'll be our little secret. How did it feel to come back and find out that you'd been _replaced_? Huh? And who's John with now? Mary."

Sherlock's jaw clenched. "I have not been replaced," he spat back.

Moriarty leaned back in the chair with a smirk. "Sherlock," he cooed. "You're not a hero, Sherlock. You're just like me. Why do you keep playing with the angels? They're no _fun_."

Sherlock scoffed.

"We're both going to hell anyway," Moriarty whispered. "You can run around, trying to cope with this world, with these people, these simple minded people. Or you could join me. We could have fun," he tempted. "Besides, in the end we're both going to the same place anyway."

"I don't believe in a hell and I don't believe we're the same," Sherlock said flatly. "Anything else? You're cutting into my teatime."

"Well if you won't take me up on that offer, I still owe you, don't I?"

"Are you going to put a bullet in me? Please, that's so cliché."

"You'll see, Sherlock. You'll see." Moriarty casually strolled out the door.

Sherlock let out his breath, frustrated with the open-ended puzzles and homicidal games of Jim Moriarty.

Moriarty's head popped through the doorway. "Oh, and for old time's sake," he grinned.

Before he could move, a red light filtered through the window, landing between Sherlock's feet, quickly followed by a whizzing bullet.

"Cliché, I know," Moriarty laughed, "but I couldn't resist. Oh, and it looks like I don't owe you any longer." He left.

* * *

"How could you be so stupid?!" Mycroft yelled. It wasn't often that Mycroft really yelled, although it was common for him to call his younger brother stupid. "Don't you see what you've done? You are banned from the Moriarty case, Sherlock!"

* * *

"Sherlock, I'm bored," Moriarty complained into the phone.

"Why are you calling me?" he replied flatly.

"Because I'm _bored_, Sherlock. Let's play a game."

"I thought we already were in your game."

"Okay, why don't you entertain me? My cards say I have a sniper ready to splatter the brains of John Watson in front of his wife. Your counter?"

"What do you want Moriarty?" Sherlock's hand was shaking slightly as he held the phone to his ear.

"I'd say a good card to pull out right now would be the Indigo File from your brother Mycroft. How about a trade? You get John Watson's life, and I get those files."

"I don't even know what files you're talking about," Sherlock replied honestly.

"Sherlock, dear, you don't need to know. All you need to know is the trigger is ready and I want those files. By midnight. I'll see you then." The line clicked shut.

* * *

"Dammit, Sherlock! Do you even know what was in those files?"

"I... I had to save John," Sherlock stuttered.

Mycroft let out a deep breath. "Sherlock, you can't be part of this case anymore. You can't have access to this information. You're letting emotions override your reasoning."

"I don't have emotions," Sherlock replied. "What was in the file?"

"You didn't even look?" Mycroft asked in disbelief. "Where is your curiosity, O Great Detective?"

"Don't mock me Mycroft. I was running out of time. John was in danger."

"Sherlock, I can't tell you what was in the file. That was classified information that you handed over to Britain's greatest homegrown terrorist. Willingly. You're banned, little brother, and lucky I pulled strings so you wouldn't be prosecuted for treason."

"Mycroft..."

"Get out before I change my mind."

* * *

"What's the real reason you were off the Moriarty case?"

Sherlock looked at the curiosity blazing in John's eyes, and the concern tugging at the corners of his mouth. He couldn't tell him. It would shatter the broken man. He was already so fragile. The tears were still fresh in his eyes, staining his face, dripping onto the infant in his arms. Sherlock didn't have emotions. _But why is this man my weakness? _

He couldn't answer John's question. But he couldn't lie to the man either. And he knew if he didn't speak up now, the words would come out later, in another letter, from Moriarty himself. He had to phrase things correctly, had to word it to soften the blow in any possible way. Sherlock remembered the pain he felt from the bullet slicing through his flesh as he nearly died on Magnusson's office floor. The pain he felt now was so similar as he managed to bring the words into his throat, choke on them, and finally let them out.

"John, put Lucy back down."

"What? Why?"

"Just please, please listen to me." He waited for the baby to be placed carefully in the cradle. "You should sit down."

"Sherlock, what the hell happened?" John felt behind him and stumbled into his chair, refusing to take his eyes off the taller man. The worry lines grew deeper in his face.

"John, I... Moriarty. I made a deal with him."

"You made a deal with the devil?" John asked in disbelief.

"Please, just let me finish," Sherlock begged. "I made a deal with Moriarty. If I gave him a secret file, he wouldn't take your life. He was going to kill you, and I couldn't let him."

"Okay. Okay," John nodded. "That's reasonable. What was on the file?"

"I... I didn't get a chance to look at it before I handed it over. I was running out of time. The deadline, John. So I just gave it to him." Sherlock could feel actual tears begin to well in his eyes. _Fuck_, he thought. _I never cry_. But the words were too painful, and the pain was too strong for his meticulously built emotional defenses.

"Sherlock."

_There's so much worry in his voice_, Sherlock sadly noted. "I... I didn't find out until later. Moriarty sent me a letter, shortly after you received yours."

* * *

_Dear Sherlock, _

_Thank you for being such a dear and giving me those Indigo Files. They were greatly appreciated. I know they must have come at a high price for you. Mycroft probably won't tell you the big secret you let slip, so I'll be a kind gentleman and let you in on the secret. The files were about me, but I'm sure you guessed that much already. I've been a naughty boy, Sherlock. I had a naughty plan. _

_But you should really thank me. I'm writing you this lovely letter, giving you secret information, and... wait for it... I gave you back John Watson. Got rid of that bloody Mary. Lucky us. My plans were almost foiled. I had a rat trying to warn the government, but without the files, they lost all the information to act upon anything. The names, pictures, identities, everything on the team I had working inside the hospital. Making it impossible to figure out who to watch, who to ban from the maternity ward. Making it easy for my team to kill the bitch. _

_I'd thank you, but I think you should really be thanking me. _

_You're welcome _

* * *

Sherlock munched on a piece of toast and watched the sleepy-eyed John Watson try to stay awake and feed his daughter, a task which seemed to be quite a struggle for the father. "Want me to feed her?" he asked.

John glared.

"Lestrade said they have a serial killer that likes to behead victims. Want to come with me?"

No response.

"Dammit, John!" Sherlock yelled, losing his temper. Lucy began wailing. "You haven't said a word to me in a week! A whole bloody week!"

"You killed my wife!" John finally shouted back. "What do you want me to say? You killed Mary!"

"Bloody hell, I saved your life! I didn't know! I didn't know what was in the file!"

"Like hell you didn't. You're Sherlock Holmes. You know everything."

"I put a bullet through a man's skull to protect your wife, John Watson. I murdered a man to save her. And they were going to send me to my death. I did all that for Mary. For _you_."

"And then you decided to make a deal with the devil," John shouted over his infant's cries.

"I was trying to save your life! That's all I was trying to do. I was trying to save you." Sherlock's voice cracked at the end as he felt the pain returning, seething like the wound from a bullet hole. "I... I was trying to save you," he repeated, a barely audible whisper, before his head hit the table.

"Sherlock, what the hell," John complained, but the curly head didn't move. "Sherlock?" He walked around the table, still carrying the baby, and took one of the pale hands. Only a slight pulse could be felt.


	4. Sent by Sherlock

Sent by Sherlock - Chapter 4

"John," Sherlock called out, his voice hoarse. "John, I'm sorry." His head was throbbing as he tried to open his eyes, only to see the world spinning around him. There was too much noise, too much motion.

"Sherlock, I'm here."

As his senses slowly crawled back to him, he could feel a hand enclosing his own and the voice of John Watson, barely audible over the commotion around him. There were others around him shouting numbers, statistics... where was he? Gradually his head began to clear and the incessant buzzing he had been hearing faded away, freeing the tension pounding in his head and his vision. He was lying on his back but could feel bumps and jerks beneath him as sirens wailed above. An ambulance.

"John, get me out of here," Sherlock demanded.

"You passed out! Your pulse nearly stopped," John replied. "You need to go to the hospital!"

"I can't. Get me out of here."

"Christ, Sherlock, this isn't funny!"

"I have to get out of here!" he shouted, wincing with the pain that came from the effort.

"You're already on your way," John said, patting his friend's hand. "You're almost there."

Sherlock started thrashing about to the best of his ability, despite his confines. "No!" he cried. "I can't, I can't!"

"Sir, we're going to have to sedate you," one of the ambulance technicians said, sticking a needle into Sherlock's neck.

"No, no, no..." His voice faded off as the ambulance carried on with John inside, clutching the cold hand of Sherlock Holmes and praying that he wouldn't lose another.

* * *

"Sherlock," a voice called out. "Sherlock. Wakey wakey." It wasn't John's.

As his eyes came to focus, the face of Jim Moriarty hovered inches above his.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked, his voice shaky and weak.

"Aren't you so faithful to your pet?" Moriarty mocked. "He's over there." He tipped his head, Sherlock's gaze following.

John was tied to a chair, gagged, and handcuffed. His head hung limp with a bloody gash near the left temple, still fresh and flowing. Sherlock's stomach dropped.

"It was so kind of him to offer to come along, wasn't it," Moriarty contemplated. "I'm still surprised he picked that dreadful woman over you." He tenderly ran a hand along Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock tried to slap it away, only to find his hands strapped to the bed he was on. He couldn't fight back. "Don't speak of her like that!" Sherlock croaked. "Mary was better than you or I could ever be."

"Oh, don't get so defensive," Moriarty complained. "And really, if I'm going to be quite honest, no one can be better than me. I'm simply the best."

"She had a heart, something you'll never have."

"Do you have a heart Sherlock?" Moriarty whispered, leaning in again.

"Love is a dangerous disadvantage," Sherlock replied. "I've purged myself from any traces of the dreaded stuff."

"So you wouldn't mind if I were to, say, butcher John here in front of you, would you? Of course not; the great Sherlock Holmes doesn't feel for anyone he says."

Sherlock fought against the restraints, but his futile attempts only made his frail body weaker. "This is between you and me, Moriarty! Leave John out of it!"

"This is my game, Sherlock. I'm the one who gets to make the rules. And this is more fun for me."

"Are you going to kill me this time?" Sherlock scoffed, refusing to give into Moriarty's ego.

"Oh Sherlock, can't you feel it? You're already dying," he whispered. "Really, this has been too easy." Moriarty gave a menacing grin and walked over to John, removing the gag. "Now he can tell you how much he hates you with his dying breath," Moriarty teased, then walked out of the room, leaving Sherlock and John alone to die.

The door clicked shut, the sound making Sherlock cringe as he recognized the sound of a lock sliding in place. The lights had left with Moriarty, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he focused on the silhouette of John. He waited for the man to shudder awake suddenly, his attack mode still on.

"Sherlock?" John called out. "Sherlock!" His voice echoed in the empty room.

"I'm here, John," Sherlock managed.

"What... what happened? Where are we?"

"Moriarty happened." The words tasted like poison on his lips. "We're in a locked room. I'd guess a storage facility."

John was silent for a long time before he asked, "Is it real this time?"

"Is what real?"

"Are we really going to die this time?"

Sherlock didn't answer, and John wasn't entirely sure if he wasn't dead already until he heard him whisper: "I'm sorry."

* * *

Lestrade was frustrated with his recent case. Adding to that frustration was Sherlock Holmes, who had promised to visit the crime scene that morning and had yet to show up. It was unlike Sherlock to be late to a crime scene, especially one as gruesome and perplexing as the one at hand. He was crouched by the recent beheaded victim, found in a dumpster, when his phone began buzzing persistently.

7:12 Sherlock passed out. Weak pulse. Going to the hospital.

"Oh, fuck," Lestrade said out loud, running a hand through his silver hair. The text from John was concerning, and with anything involving Sherlock, it also involved trouble. Lestrade left orders for the forensics on the scene and climbed into his car, weaving his way through the streets of London to the hospital.

* * *

"I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes. Where is he?" Lestrade asked the woman at the reception desk.

"Sherlock Holmes? The detective guy with the hat?"

"Yeah, where is he? What floor?"

"Are you a relative?" she asked.

"No, I'm a bloody cop! Where the hell is he?" He pulled out his badge and showed it to her, his frustration growing once again.

The woman looked flustered and began quickly typing at her keyboard. "There's no record of Mr. Holmes being here," she said, looking up nervously.

"Did the ambulance hit traffic? What's going on? 221 Baker Street. Any ambulances sent to 221 Baker Street?"

She began typing furiously again. "There was a call a good half hour ago," she replied, "but the ambulance was called off. That's odd."

Lestrade felt the air in his lungs turn heavy and cold. "That is odd," he murmured, then ran out to his car to phone the station.

* * *

The officers sent to Baker Street found nothing but a worried Mrs. Hudson trying to calm a baby in her arms. Lestrade scratched his head and nervously called Mycroft, uncertain of what happened.

"Did you get John's text?" Lestrade asked the moment the phone picked up.

"Yes. What is it this time?"

"He's not at the hospital, Mycroft. He never made it there."

There was an eerie pause. "He's dead?" Mycroft asked.

"I don't know what happened to him. The ambulance was called off, according to the hospital. But Mrs. Hudson saw one cart him and John away."

"Well did you try texting either one?"

"Repeatedly. No answer. Shit, Mycroft, you don't think it was..."

"That's exactly what I'm thinking," Mycroft cut in.

"Well what do we..." The phone clicked off. "Mycroft?"

* * *

John wanted to hate Sherlock. He had given away the information that had lead to his wife's death. He had made an enemy out of the man who now had John tied to a chair and given him a gash on the head that left a resounding headache. Now he was going to die, slowly, painfully, and leaving his baby girl an orphan. But as much as he wanted to hate Sherlock, he couldn't.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered, making John's heart drop. John saw the deep sincerity in those blue-gray eyes and the shame as they looked away. The pale face was eerily white in the darkness, but John had the feeling that it was more drained of color than usual. He could hear the detective's ragged breathing and saw the way his hands were weakly shuddering. Sherlock was dying fast, and John was watching once again as life left his best friend.

"Sherlock, you'll think of something. We'll find a way. We always find a way."

"I'm sorry John," Sherlock replied. "I... There's nothing. I can't do anything. I'm so sorry."

The words took clear effort from the dying man's lips, and John shuddered as he could hear the strength leaving the body. "Sherlock," John whispered sullenly. "It's okay."

"It's not okay," Sherlock retorted. "I... It's all my fault. Mary. And you. And poor Lucy is alone now. I promised, John, and I failed. Three times over." His body shook as sobs escaped.

"Sherlock, you're my best friend. And I know, I know you tried. I accepted this life, this bloody dangerous life. And throughout it you've always tried to protect me, and my family."

"I love her John," Sherlock whispered. "Lucy. I love her. I know she's your daughter, but... sometimes she feels like mine too. When I hold her, and when I play for her, and when she smiles..."

The tears sprung to John's eyes as he thought of his baby girl. And it was true, Sherlock was as big a part of her life as he was. They raised her together, and Sherlock had done so much for her, especially on the days where John struggled to simply get out of bed. "I know, Sherlock. Thank you."

"John, there's got to be a way. Somehow. You have to make it," Sherlock whispered hoarsely. "For Lucy. You can't leave her. She needs you. Dammit, why can't I think of a way?"

"It seems we can never save the ones we love," John whispered back, then finally gave way to the sorrow swelling inside, letting the sobs overtake him. It was true: Sherlock Holmes was often seen as heartless and cold inside, but John knew better. Beneath the stoic exterior was a man who felt compassion, burning inside his heart, for the ones he truly cared about. Sherlock Holmes wasn't sobbing over his impending death. He was crying for the infant girl he loved and was leaving behind.

* * *

"Shit!" Lestrade yelled, throwing his phone across the room. He couldn't find them. Mycroft had checked London surveillance cameras, but the ambulance had been lost somewhere, taking a back road unmonitored or switching vehicles somewhere in a blind spot. Fucking Moriarty. The sick bastard.

He held his head in his hands, feeling the intense migraine that accompanied his frustration. Where the fuck could they be?

Lestrade's phone began buzzing violently. "Mycroft. Oh god. Tell me you've found them."

"I hate to admit it, but I think Sherlock saw this coming. We had placed agents to trail John at all times, and they lost the ambulance. But they've found something."

"Dammit, Mycroft, is it them? Where are they?"

"I'll let you know," Mycroft said, hanging up.

Lestrade threw his phone again, annoyed with Mycroft. "He's worse than Sherlock," he complained.

* * *

Sherlock had stopped making any sounds at all. John's heart sunk as he tried to keep his head free from the thought that his best friend was dead. "Sherlock," he sobbed. "Don't die. Don't leave me. We're going to make it. We have to make it."

There was a scraping sound in the direction of the bolted door. _He's probably coming back to gloat over Sherlock's death_, John thought bitterly. The scraping intensified as shouts could be heard. Shouts. _Why would Moriarty shout_?

"Hello?" John called out, his heart quickening with hope. "Is there anyone there? Oh, god, please say there's someone there!"

The shouts increased before dying away suddenly. John choked as his tears came back, his hope gone. A sudden detonation blasted his eardrums as the door was blasted off the hinges. Terror now had a hold on him.

"John Watson?" a man asked as sunlight streamed through the opening, blinding John.

"Are you here to help me or kill me?" John shouted blindly in the direction of the voice.

"Here to help, sir," another voice answered from behind as the straps bounding John's hands were cut.

Tears of joy sprung to his eyes. "Thank god, someone has to help my friend though! Who sent you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," the voice replied, cutting the ties strapping his feet to the chair.

In seconds John was freed and rushing over to the bed where Sherlock was being checked by the first voice. "Is... is he alive?" John asked, his heart pounding.

"Barely," the man answered. "Help me roll him out of here."

"Who... who are you?" John asked. "How did you find us?"

"Sherlock Holmes," the man answered. "We work for Sherlock, and he sent us to find you. Let's go now. We have to get him out of here."

John helped the man wheel the bed out to a waiting industrial truck, where the other voice, a woman, was waiting at the wheel. "Is he going to make it?" John asked hesitantly.

"We'll see, Doctor Watson. We have a basic medical kit in the back. You can tend to him until we reach the hospital, yes?"

The vehicle had government plates, and as the man opened the back, John saw the box suited for medical transport. "Yeah," John replied, stunned. "But we can't go to the hospital. Moriarty..."

Another voice answered him. "Moriarty won't have access to him. You'll have to figure it out, John. Molly will help."

John had been busy looking at the beeping machines and medical fixtures, so he was startled by this third voice. He looked up quickly to see Mycroft in the back of the truck. "Let's go," Mycroft commanded. "We can't waste time."


	5. Family

The next time Sherlock remembered waking up he was hooked to an IV, lying drowsily on a movable bed in his bedroom. He turned his head to the right to see John in his chair, his sleeping head propped up by his arm. There was a side table set up on his other side with a cup of tea, likely from Mrs. Hudson, and two get-well cards: an elaborate card with precision handwriting and another bought from a drugstore that sold cheesy cards. The first was likely from Molly; the later was probably from his parents, since he had received the same one from them multiple times with Mycroft's name added in his mother's handwriting.

On the other side of the side table Lucy's crib had been set up. The little girl looked through the bars with her wide blue eyes at Sherlock as she sat up and reached out for him with her chubby hands. He smiled, noting how tiring the simple action was to his weakened body. "Durla," she called out to him, and he couldn't help the straining smile that appeared on his face as she tried to say his name the best her young voice could manage.

"Hello, Lucy," he whispered back, barely lifting a trembling hand in an attempt to connect with the baby.

"Durla! Durla!" She squealed, clapping her hands together. The noise startled John, whose hand moved with the sudden sound as his head jerked awake.

"Sherlock," John said, half asleep and likely responding to a dream rather than the man before him. He shook his head and let his eyes focus before looking over and exclaiming, "Sherlock! You're awake!"

"Yes, it appears I am. I have to say, John, these near-death experiences with you are getting quite tiresome," he grinned.

John gave a faint smile back. "Or it could be the poison in your system making you tired."

"Poison?" He cocked an eyebrow.

"Your nicotine patches. They were poisoned, slowly leaking the toxins into your bloodstream. I guess that morning pushed you over the edge."

"John, that means... that means," he stuttered.

"That he was here. Moriarty. Here in the house where my little girl sleeps. Yeah," John replied.

"Oh, fuck," Sherlock whispered. It was one thing to have Moriarty show up and make demands. It was another for him to pop in while neither adult was home to supervise baby Lucy, left alone with a babysitter. The babysitter...

"Fire Susan," Sherlock said immediately.

"What?"

"Fire Susan."

"Because..."

"Because she let him in the fucking house, John! This is our... this is your daughter! No more babysitters. We can't leave her alone with strangers, or anyone incapable of defending his or herself against potential threats."

"I... uh, yeah," John replied, taken aback by the sudden outburst. "You're right. We can't."

"We'll have to figure something out. A schedule of sorts. Maybe..."

"Sherlock, Harry's coming to stay."

"Harry? Who the bloody hell is Harry?"

"My sister, Sherlock. And her fiancée. I've asked them to stay with us, just for awhile. To watch Lucy. So we can stop Moriarty once and for all."

"Right, Harry. The alcoholic Harry?"

"She's been sober for over a year now," John defended.

"And what are her qualifications when it comes to childcare?"

"Dammit, Sherlock, she's my sister. She's family. What qualifications do you have to watch Lucy?" John retorted.

Sherlock stared back blankly.

"Oh. Oh shit, Sherlock, I didn't mean..."

"No. No, you're right, John. I don't know anything about babies. I don't know much about caring for any human, in fact."

"Sherlock, I... I didn't mean it like that. I didn't. I was just... Things have been so damn stressful lately, Sherlock. And I'm scared as hell." John looked into Sherlock's gray eyes, pleading for him to understand with the desperation they conveyed.

Sherlock looked back into John's eyes. "I know, John. I know." He rested his head on his pillow and shut his eyes, trying to withdraw himself from the world completely. In that moment, he didn't want to be Sherlock Holmes. He didn't want to be a genius or a detective. He wanted to know what it felt like to be normal. To not worry that a psychopath was on the loose, threatening to take away everyone he actually gave a damn about. If he was normal, he wouldn't be a target. John wouldn't be a target. Lucy would be safe in the arms of both of her parents.

He had never before wished to be normal. He couldn't understand how normal people were satisfied in their boring, oblivious minds. And they always seemed to be going on about dull things like love and emotions, areas he had always deemed unimportant. He was correct in logic when he told Irene Adler that sentiment was found on the losing side. But Sherlock didn't lose. He refused. Yet he could place no other name but sentiment on his feelings for John and Lucy.

Moriarty. He was able to throw out any and all feelings. Did that make him the winning side?

"Sherlock?" John asked quietly, breaking him from his thoughts.

"Yes, John?" He didn't move a muscle, still closing his eyes on the pillow.

"What did those people mean, they were sent by you? The ones who saved us."

Sherlock opened one eye and peered at his friend. "I hired some people to trail you. And Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson as well, of course, but yours proved to be the most valuable under the circumstances."

"You... I was being trailed?" John spluttered.

"Yes, and may I say, the amount of time you spent at the bar during your depression was quite worrisome. I was debating whether or not to drag you to an alcoholics meeting."

John breathed out a huff. "Normally I would hate you for a few days, but since you saved our lives, I'll let this one go."

Sherlock grinned. "Really I should be thanking you. They came because you were in danger. No one was coming because I was in danger. Fortunately, my best friend stayed with me because I was in danger. Thank you, John."

John opened his mouth to reply, but no coherent thoughts could come to mind. By the time he thought of a reasonable response, he could hear the slowed rate of Sherlock's breathing and see the steady rise and fall of his chest.

* * *

"How is he?" Molly Hooper asked as she pulled drugs from her coat pockets.

"He's..." John rocked his head in thought. "He's getting there. Still really weak. Did you bring what I asked for?"

"Yeah, it's all here," Molly said, pointing at the jars and containers of medicines she had placed on the table before her. She brushed a stray auburn hair from her face. "And how are you, John?"

"Life with Sherlock... It's not easy, Molly."

"But I'm sure it's worth it."

John was silent for a moment. "Sometimes, I don't know anymore, Molly. Maybe before, when I was a bachelor. When I could afford to be carefree and reckless. But now, now I have a daughter to take care of. I can't leave her alone, but I put both of us at risk every day just because we're associated with Sherlock Holmes. And Mary..." He took a ragged breath before finishing, "and befriending Sherlock cost Mary her life."

Molly was stunned for a moment. "I thought... childbirth?"

John shook his head. "Moriarty likes collateral damage," he whispered. "We're all in danger. Me, you, Lestrade. Because we decided to associate ourselves with a man named Sherlock Holmes."

Molly bit her lip. "Why do we love him when he claims he's incapable of love?" she whispered.

"Because we know it's a lie," John answered, equally silent.

They stood in silence, contemplating the complexities of their lives that centered around a singular man with an unusual mind and attraction for trouble. Molly then went into Sherlock's room, to check on his progress and chat, but he was sound asleep. She brushed his curls away from his eyes and planted a kiss on his forehead before leaving and sharing a glance with John as they both wondered whether love was enough to keep them connected to the one who claimed it was a disease that could not penetrate him.

* * *

"But I'm sure it's worth it."

"Sometimes, I don't know anymore, Molly."

The words sliced through Sherlock like razors. John Watson was uncertain whether or not he wanted to remain connected to Sherlock. Of course, logic said that even if John moved across the world he'd still be in danger. It didn't matter that he liked Sherlock. It mattered to Moriarty that Sherlock liked him. But John, his best friend, his one true friend...

And then salt was poured on Sherlock's wounds: "Befriending Sherlock cost Mary her life."

There it was. John was still harboring blame for Sherlock in his wife's death.

As he heard footsteps approach he closed his eyes and feigned sleep, trying to keep his mind away from the conversation he had overheard so as to appear calm while inside he was screaming. He could smell the perfume and knew it was Molly who stroked his hair and bent down to kiss him. Molly always gave more compassion to him than he ever deserved or returned. He thought again about what it'd be like to live a normal life. Maybe if he had been destined for that life he would've settled down with Molly and raised children of his own, who he could honestly claim as his own, unlike Lucy.

No. He was kidding himself. He wanted to feel something for Molly because he genuinely cared about Molly. But even if he was average, he'd settle down with a nice bloke like John, not a woman like Molly. Janine had noticed. Sherlock knew too, although he wasn't very in touch with his sexual side. But if he was going to be average and start a family, it would be with another man, not a woman.

It wasn't even something he'd really considered until he met John. He remembered their first days together and telling John that he wasn't interested. He was married to his work. And back when he said it, it had been so true. His work was all he cared about. And then this man named John Watson entered his life and saved his life and changed the way he saw the world. Eventually it became harder and harder to ignore the feelings awakening within.

When he returned, after his fake death, John was the first face he wanted to see. The only face he wanted to see. The only face he needed to see. Sure, there was Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly, but they hadn't been on his mind every day for two years. They hadn't been in his dreams or his thoughts, and they hadn't been in the nightmares that woke him for quite a few months. Nightmares of Moriarty holding a gun to John's head, and firing.

He returned to London to a John that had not jumped to his feet and rushed to hug him, as he had expected. Fantasized, really. Instead he returned to John and Mary. Mary, who snapped him back to reality. Whose presence reminded him that he was not a normal man who could expect normal joys in his life. And John Watson had not waited two years for him, like he had always thought in his head. John moved on with his life, bringing Sherlock scrambling backwards to his.

Mary. He truly cared for Mary. She made John happy. If she had been just another girlfriend, Sherlock would have cast her aside as insignificant. But she wasn't. She had been John's fiancée, and she loved him. It was so obvious how her pulse quickened around John and his responded in the same way. She made John happy, and that made Sherlock happy. He willingly went back to routine of marriage to the job.

Now there was no Mary. There was only Sherlock, John, and Lucy. And it was becoming clear that Moriarty's antics were soon to leave it as Sherlock, alone with Mrs. Hudson on Baker Street.

He was losing his family.

Moriarty had to be stopped.


	6. Blood in the Air

Blood in the Air - Chapter Six

With the IV finally out of his arm, Sherlock was free to move about. His muscles still ached from the poisoning, but only mildly. Pain was quickly becoming a close acquaintance. He shrugged his shoulders, trying to shake off the annoyance of the poisoning aftereffects. His head pounded from nicotine withdrawal, and all he wanted was a good drag on a cigarette. He was slightly repulsed at the idea of using patches still, after they had been seeping the toxins into his body that nearly killed him. Almost ironic, how he was nearly killed from his undying smoking habit. Maybe he'd turn to alcohol instead to calm his nerves, but that was more impairing.

John was sitting at the breakfast table feeding Lucy when Sherlock approached. "Morning," he said nonchalantly, searching the refrigerator. "Lestrade still has that beheading problem on his hands. Care to check it out?"

John let out a sigh. "I told you already, Harry's coming today. I have to wait for her arrival."

"Oh right, your sister. And her fiancée?"

"Yeah. I don't know anything about her yet, so I really should be here to greet them properly. But you should definitely go out, check out those beheadings."

Sherlock turned away from the milk to look at John. "You don't want me to meet your sister, do you."

"I didn't say that, Sherlock."

"But you don't want me to be here when she arrives."

"I think it'd probably be easier for everyone if you weren't." John focused his eyes on feeding his daughter, refusing to make eye contact with Sherlock.

"You're ashamed of me."

John sighed again and finally looked up. "Dammit, Sherlock, why do you choose now to be perceptive of human behavior?"

"Why are you ashamed of me?" Sherlock asked. The thought was painful, and he was beginning to crave a cigarette more than ever before.

"I'm not ashamed of you exactly. I just... I'd prefer to properly greet Harry and her fiancée with a regular teatime before they meet you. You can be quite hard to handle sometimes. They should get settled first."

"Fine," Sherlock snapped, slamming the refrigerator door shut. He stormed down the stairs and out the door before John could say anything more.

* * *

"Look who's here today," Lestrade announced as Sherlock slipped under the police tape. "Where's John?"

"He's not coming," Sherlock replied flatly.

Lestrade lifted his eyebrows. "Are you two okay?"

"Of course we're okay. Why wouldn't we be?" Sherlock snapped.

"It's just that, you know, you two used to go everywhere and do everything together. Now you're hardly together at all, even though you still live together."

"We're not a couple," Sherlock replied, because that's what John would have said if he were there.

"Clearly," Lestrade replied, leading Sherlock towards the victim. The words stung slightly to hear.

"Michelle Parker, age 34," Lestrade said, introducing the headless body. "ID confirmed by wallet still on the body."

Sherlock scanned the crime scene. "Where's the head?"

"Why do you think I invited you?"

"You have a serial beheader, with six bodies, and..."

"No heads," Lestrade finished.

"Someone is storing heads?" Sherlock questioned out loud. "Hmm. John, why don't you..." he turned to ask the doctor, who wasn't there. An awkward silence fell upon the crime scene, broken only by Lestrade's purposeful cough.

"So what kind of sick bastard keeps the heads as trophies?" he asked Sherlock.

"Heads would be somewhat hard to keep," Sherlock admitted. "I once kept a severed head in the ice box. It only took a few days before Mrs. Hudson started complaining about the smell of sour milk coming from the refrigerator. But there was no milk."

Lestrade pursed his lips together and looked at his feet, trying to remove the image of finding a bloody head in Sherlock's fridge from his mind. "We haven't found a pattern amongst the victims yet," he said, trying to change the subject and not ruin his lunch.

"Six bodies and no connection yet?" Sherlock wondered out loud. "You know, the ones who choose victims at random are the worst there are."

"I can see. I have six headless corpses to back you up. Can you find a connection to lead us to the killer?"

"I want all the background information on all the victims, including records of any interviews you have done with friends and family. John and I will look into it."

"John?"

"Yes. He loves this sort of thing. The game."

"Maybe John's tired of the game, Sherlock."

Sherlock tightened his eyebrows together. "Ridiculous."

"He has a baby now."

"He'll come around. He will. He has to."

Sherlock stalked away from the scene, lifting up his coat collar, while Lestrade shook his head at the retreating figure.

* * *

13:24 - John Watson  
Come home. Now.

Sherlock wondered why he was being called home after he had been kicked out earlier that day.

13:25  
Why - SH

13:28 - John Watson  
Harry's here and I need you here too.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He wanted to be frustrated with John and fight the urge in his gut that begged him to run to John's calling.

13:30  
I'm busy. - SH

There. He would not let John Watson have any more control over his life than he had already allowed. He was Sherlock Holmes. He was independent and too intelligent to be bound to any man. He would fight the urge of sentiment that welled inside him. He would fight the mental images that plagued him, especially in his dreams. Of John's smile when Sherlock made a joke. Of the twinkle in his eyes when he looked at his daughter. Of the lavender shampoo he used in his soft gray hair.

Sherlock was shaken out of his trance by the sound of his phone. But it wasn't the regular beep that came with John's messages. It was a woman's sigh. The Woman, to be specific. He quickly flipped open the phone.

13:32  
Did you miss me? We're having dinner tonight.

Sherlock stared in awe for a few seconds before hailing a cab and heading back to Baker Street.

* * *

The door creaked open. "That must be my flat mate, Sherlock Holmes," John said loudly to his sister as Sherlock came bounding up the steps.

He was greeted by John holding Lucy in his arms and standing next to a short woman with close cropped brown hair and eyes just like her brothers. She wore a simple pink dress that was brought to life by the dazzling diamond ring on her finger. Impossible for the detective, or anyone, to miss.

"Hello, Sherlock. I'm Harry," she said extending a hand.

"Nice to meet you," Sherlock replied as he grasped her hand, trying to remember John's rules of compassion. This was John's family. His sister. He needed to make a good impression.

Sherlock's eyes caught sight of a woman sauntering into the room from the direction of the kitchen. "This is my fiancée, Lauren," Harry introduced.

"Nice to meet you," she said, grabbing hold of Sherlock's hand and firmly grasping it in a handshake.

Sherlock did not reply, but shared a glance of concern with John. Now he knew why he had been summoned to Baker Street.

Lauren wore a black lace dress tightly contoured to her body and dark red lipstick. Her dark hair was pinned into an elegant bun with a sparkling pearl hairclip and her eyes were intelligent and piercing. More importantly, she wore a mask of false identity, for both Sherlock and John had already met Harry's fiancée under her real name, Irene Adler.

"Sherlock," John said, breaking the tension. "Could you help me with something in the bedroom? I can't find Lucy's stuffed bear, and you're the best at finding things."

"Sure," Sherlock replied. "Excuse me," he told Irene and Harry as he slipped past them to follow John.

* * *

"I thought she was dead. Mycroft said she was dead," John whispered harshly.

"Well, I guess Mycroft is wrong about something," Sherlock replied.

"What the hell is she doing in my house, engaged to my sister?" John demanded.

"How would I know?"

"Because you know everything! What the hell is she doing here, Sherlock? Is she a spy again? For Moriarty?"

"I don't know, John."

"Well what are we going to do? Do we tell Harry? We can't tell Harry. She hasn't talked to me in years. Why now?"

"It is quite suspicious," Sherlock admitted. He didn't want Irene Adler to be an evil force in his life. Not after he saved hers. She owed him, didn't she? Then again, Moriarty had sent an IOU to Sherlock that hadn't turned out very well.

"But what do we do, Sherlock! Think! You're the genius!"

"Well we sure as bloody hell don't leave her alone with Lucy," Sherlock said, his protective instinct kicking in. "This was a mistake. We can't bring in others to help raise her. We can't. We can only trust ourselves."

"Well I see that now," John complained. "Fat lot it's done me now, hasn't it?"

"John," Sherlock whispered. "I don't give a damn what Moriarty tries to do to me. But I won't for a second let him hurt that little girl. He may have messed with those around me in the past, but if he so much as touches her, I will end him. No matter how it must happen, I will end him."

John looked into the piercing gray eyes and saw a storm within. It was clear from the enunciation of the words that nothing would stop Sherlock from destroying Moriarty completely if he were to come near Lucy. And while they were words of comfort to the startled John, the ferocity he saw in the depths of those gray pools sent a shiver up his spine. He could nearly smell the blood in the air.

* * *

"Harry," John called brightly as he re-entered the room with Lucy in his arms. "It really is so good to see you again," he told her.

She smiled at her brother, her eyes crinkling at the corners similar to the way his own did when he grinned. "I'm so sorry I couldn't make it to the wedding," she replied. "I was in rehab for my, er, issue."

"Well, that's perfectly understandable," John said, trying to look enthralled and hide the building rage within.

"I just wish I could have met Mary," Harry said. "I know I'm late, but, I'm sorry for your loss." She awkwardly hugged her brother, the knowledge of their distance like a body wedged between them.

"You would have liked her," he whispered sadly. "She was brilliant."

The embrace was broken by Sherlock's abrupt entrance into the room. "I told you," he said loudly, glaring at John, "I will not share this loft with any more bodies! It's already bad enough there's a crying baby here. No more!"

"But Sherlock," John protested, "it's my sister."

"I don't care if she's the bloody queen, she's not staying here," Sherlock commanded. "I pay the majority of the rent. What I say goes."

"We talked about this..."

"And I said no. Get them out. I hate commonfolk."

They quietly glared at each other before John sighed and looked away. "I'm sorry to drag you out here, Harry," he said regretfully, "but my roommate truly is impossible. And with a baby, I can't afford to find another flat right now. It's true. He does pay most of the rent. I really can't afford to cross him right now. You won't be able to stay here."

Sherlock turned up his nose and looked down upon John's sister. The air was thick with his ego of superiority.

"I see," Harry said, trying to be understanding. "Well, we better be going. It's getting quite late." She squirmed uncomfortably under the detective's glare.

"C'mon, Lauren," she called to Irene as she headed towards the door. "Bye John," she threw over her shoulder, not looking back.

Irene cocked her head and glared at Sherlock, giving him an inquisitive stare, before trotting after Harry. When they were both gone and the door was shut, John let out his withheld breath.

Sherlock slammed the bolt shut. "We need to get to the bottom of this."

* * *

20:13 - The Woman  
You still owe me dinner.

20:14  
What do you want - SH

20:16 - The Woman  
A roasted duck sounds lovely.

20:17  
What do you want with John's family - SH

20:20 - The Woman  
Can't a woman be in love?

20:21  
You don't display the signs of being in love - SH

20:22 - The Woman  
Mr. Holmes, you know nothing about love. And not everyone stares forlornly at their heart's fancy like you do at Mr. Watson.

Sherlock stared at the message on his phone. For once he was stumped for a reply.

"Sherlock? You alright?" John asked, rocking Lucy in his arms.

"Yeah," he said, running a hand through his curls.

"Why are you texting Irene?"

"Huh?"

"I know you well enough to know that the only time you listen to a woman moan is when Irene Adler sends you a text message."

Sherlock sighed. "It was me. I... I was the one who saved her. She was very nearly dead. I thought, I thought it was the human thing to do. Quite possibly, it was the wrong thing to do." He looked up at John with saddened eyes, blaming himself already for whatever harm The Woman would send John's way. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."


	7. The Game Is On

The Game Is On - Chapter 7

John wasn't upset with Sherlock. A little annoyed that the detective kept so many secrets from him, but not upset. In fact, if he was to label his feelings, he'd have to admit to being impressed. Sherlock was growing, and was growing to show sympathy. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had compassion, and John nearly beamed at this. It was nice to see Sherlock so human. Little acts of compassion were what John needed, to remind him that Sherlock could in fact feel love. Because they reminded himself how much he loved his best friend.

He was, however, wary of Irene Adler's sudden reappearance. "Sherlock, I'm not upset that you saved her, because it was the right thing to do. I'm just concerned as to what her sudden reappearance could mean for us."

Sherlock raised his hung head to look at John. "You're not..."

"No, I'm not. Now stop moping and start thinking already. Dammit, you're getting soft."

A grin cracked across Sherlock's face, prompting a smile on John's, and the two friends laughed. John clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder in reassurance. "The game is on," he said.

That made Sherlock's smile even wider. The game was on.

* * *

"Hi... Harry?" John said into his cell. "I'd like to apologize for the other day. Sherlock can be quite a handful at times." To this Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disdain. "Anyways, we'd like to make it up to you. How about lunch at Speedy's Café? Good? Okay, we'll see you there!" He closed the phone and turned towards Sherlock.

"Ground rules. Don't do anything extreme."

"Extreme?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I never do anything extreme. Christ, John, it's not like I jump off buildings or pretend a bomb's going to blow us up underground."

John playfully shoved Sherlock with mock annoyance, but was unable to hold back his laugh. Sherlock smiled in response, silently grateful that John was not close enough to hear the quickened pace of his heart at the touch or see how his lips quivered slightly. In his head he scolded himself for reacting to a simple touch that meant completely different things to the involved parties.

* * *

John held the door open as Harry walked through. She stopped briefly on the threshold to whisper into his ear: "You aren't in a relationship with this Sherlock fellow, are you?" to which John pursed his lips together and informed her that no, he was not also gay.

"You know, you could tell me," Harry whispered. "Look at me. I obviously wouldn't judge."

Sherlock pretended to not hear the conversation but Irene snickered and walked past the men, grabbing her fiancée's arm and heading for a table. "I guess we all like girls here," she announced. "Well, at least three of us do." She tossed her head back to eye Sherlock, who replied, "I have no interest in relationships, only my work." He regretted how much effort the statement took to say in front of John when it had been so simple to toss it around in the past.

Sherlock held Lucy in his arms as he walked through the door, glad for her company. It was easy to love a baby, and for a baby to love someone back. He made faces for her as they settled down at the table. Part of it was because he genuinely enjoyed seeing her toothless grin. Part of it was because he wanted to prove to John that he could care for a baby. Better than any long-lost sister could, at least.

Harry and Irene sat on one side of the table while John and Sherlock sat on the other with Lucy. Sherlock noted the size of the table, wishing it was larger to put more space between him and Irene. He had been so fond of her mind. But it had disappointed him in the end, when it was molded by the works of Jim Moriarty. He had enough respect for her intelligence to save her life, but not to forgive her entirely for putting John at risk. Now he had to be cautious, more alert than ever before, as Moriarty's efforts caved in on Baker Street.

As everyone looked at their menus Lucy grew restless and began to cry. John sighed and took her from Sherlock's arms. "Probably hungry. I forgot to bring a bottle. Care to get one with me, Harry?"

"Sure," she said, getting up from the table with John and following him out the door. Sherlock watched as John asked his sister if she wanted to hold her niece and she carefully took Lucy out of his arms. She made a remark that made John laugh, and Sherlock admired the way the corners of his eyes crinkled before turning to face Irene.

"Not quite dinner, is it?" she said, breaking the silence. "But I'll take a lunch."

"What are you doing with John's sister?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

Irene smirked. "I'd tell you, but I don't think you'd understand."

"I understand a lot. More than most people."

"They still call you the virgin, you know. I don't think you'd understand this."

Sherlock could feel his face flame. "That's not what I was alluding to and you know it. Did Moriarty send you again?"

Irene placed her menu on the table and leaned forward. "Tell me, why are you so convinced I'm guilty of something?"

"You disappear for years and show up again at my house with a new name and John's sister, around the same time Moriarty begins his strike once again."

"You know if he really wanted you dead, you would be already," she said, leaning back in the chair. "You call yourself a genius. You miss so much, Mr. Holmes."

"Are you telling me this is an innocent charade?"

"You gave me a second shot at life, Mr. Holmes. I started over, changed my name. Found a woman. Fell in love. And the only one who cannot fathom that is you, Sherlock. Why? Because your mind is so defunct when it really comes down to the understanding of emotions. You know science, figures, numbers. You don't know the heart. And you sure as hell don't know how to read someone once they're ruled by their heart, not their head."

"I do know that in the past you were willing to hand over the man you supposedly loved to a psychopath intent on his destruction."

Irene let out a genuine laugh. "Oh dear, you _are_ too much to handle. In love? With you? Never. I am a lesbian, Mr. Holmes. Do I need to expand your vocabulary?"

"I know what a lesbian is. And I read your signs to know that you were in love with me."

"Never," she laughed. "Infatuated with your mind, yes. I'll admit, I was impressed. It's hard to find anyone who can rival my intelligence. But in love with you, no."

"But the lock on your phone..."

"Was quite witty, don't you think? What can I say, I'm a sucker for corny things. And free dinners." She grinned as she watched Sherlock slowly come undone, questioning everything that had happened in his mind.

"I do give you props though for your acting, Mr. Holmes. You're almost as good as me."

"What acting?"

"To begin with, that little scene in your room the other night. Playing the madman. I'm sure that wasn't much of a stretch for you. And the little dance you put on to have this conversation, to get me away from Harry. Creative."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when he heard the door open and John's laughter as he returned with Harry and Lucy. Irene smiled warmly as Harry rejoined her. As John sat down, he cast a wondering look at the stoic Sherlock, who gave nothing away.

"I'm thinking of some steak and chips," Irene said, showing the menu to Harry and pointing, ultimately cutting off Sherlock from any more prying questions.

* * *

"What did you find out?" John asked expectantly once he and Sherlock were alone at home.

"Nothing," he admitted, then relayed the conversation to John.

"Nothing? How did you find out nothing?"

"I don't know John. Maybe it's a coincidence."

"Do you even believe in coincidences?"

"Do you have a better explanation than the one she gave?"

"No," John said, holding his head in his hands.

Sherlock's phone rang, breaking the tension of the room. He glanced at it. "Lestrade. Another beheaded victim. Ready to check it out this time?"

"The game is on," John shrugged, grabbing his coat and giving Mrs. Hudson instructions to feed Lucy at a certain time.

* * *

"We need to figure this out, fast," Lestrade said as he led John and Sherlock towards the crime scene. His face was ashen and the wrinkles more pronounced. "John, I'm not sure you want to see this one."

"I was in a war, Lestrade. I've seen a lot of bodies."

"This one's different," he nearly whispered, slipping under the police tape.

Sherlock scanned the area for a body, but all he could see was a huddled team of forensics investigators. "Where is it?" he asked.

Lestrade nodded in the direction of the forensics, and Sherlock walked up to them, parting the crowd with John at his tail. When he saw the body, he stepped back in shock.

"Oh. Oh, _fuck_," John whispered, then hunched over and gagged.

"What the fuck is going on," Sherlock demanded, staring down Lestrade.

"That's why you're here, isn't it?"

"What were the ID's of the others?"

"Shirley Jones, 78. Malcolm Smith, 45. Evan Peters, 33. Willa Fitzgerald, 31. Lance Fisher, 32. Michelle Parker, 34."

"Variety of ages, genders... where's the pattern?" Sherlock thought aloud.

"This is fucking wrong. This is so fucking wrong," John said, still hunched over.

"Does she have a name?" Sherlock whispered.

"There's nothing. We have nothing on her. We think she was an abandoned baby who had the misfortune of being found by our serial beheader."

"Fuck," was all Sherlock could say before John heaved onto the pavement.

* * *

John had insisted on drinks, and Sherlock could feel himself gradually losing control as the alcohol seeped into his bloodstream. He turned a wobbly head over to John, who was also obviously intoxicated. Sherlock grinned at his friend.

"Did I ever tell you," he slurred, "that you're my best friend?"

John raised his eyebrows. "Am I? You're my best friend too!"

"Oh, that's great!" Sherlock exclaimed, slamming his glass down on the counter. He swiveled to face John.

"John," he said softly.

John turned to face him back. "Why are we whispering?" he asked, his head swaying slightly.

"Because it's important, John," Sherlock replied. "John, I have to tell you something important."

"Well what is it?"

"I'm not good at explaining this stuff," Sherlock said, grasping the bar as the world turned around him. "Can... can I show you?"

"Go ahead," John rumbled, waving a drunken hand.

Sherlock took in a breath and let it out slowly. Suddenly he leaned forward, caressing John's face with one hand, steadying himself against the bar with the other, and planted his lips against his friend's. He waited briefly as his stomach churned, aching for John to press back.

Sherlock slowly pulled away. "I... um..." he stuttered, unsure what to say.

John tilted his head, clearly confused. "Sherlock? Did you just kiss me?"

"Yes," Sherlock admitted.

"Oh. That's not how you do it," he answered, and leaned forward, pressing his lips against Sherlock's before parting them with his tongue. Sherlock clasped a hand on John's shoulder to steady himself as the force of the kiss took him in.

"That's how you kiss," John said when he broke away. "Didn't Janine teach you anything?"

Sherlock grinned. "I wasn't really trying then," he said.

John turned back to his glass, tipping it forward to see how much was left. "Well now you know for the next time you use a girl. What did you want to tell me?"

"I don't remember," Sherlock answered, his stomach sinking. He downed his drink and asked for another, waiting for his memory and feelings to fade.

* * *

John walked to the table where Sherlock sat, grimacing as he held his head.

"I made you some coffee," Sherlock said, sipping some from his own cup.

"Thank god," John replied, collapsing into a chair. "What happened last night?"

"I don't remember," Sherlock lied.

"Guess we drank too much," John said, rubbing his temples. "Everything's so foggy. Was Harry there?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "She was at lunch. This was later."

"Well, remind me not to drink so much again," he said, then got up to turn off the light above the table. "Better," he sighed as he sunk into the chair again.

Sherlock fiddled with his mug, wincing from the memories that hurt more than the hangover.


	8. Change is Needed

Change is Needed - Chapter Eight

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I can't believe I completely forgot to add the beginning of this chapter when I first posted it! (I copied and pasted but forgot a part, but now it's fixed!)**

"Sherlock, dear, there's a letter here for you," Mrs. Hudson called.

Sherlock hopped down the stairs to retrieve a heavy envelope with his name in calligraphy on the front. He inspected it carefully before opening it, pulling out a piece of parchment with familiar scrawl. It simply said, "I thought you might like these. They're nice. Here's some copies."

He rushed upstairs with the letter and shook it out above his desk, not surprised but still startled when the photographs spilled out. They were dark, but the people were still recognizable.

In the first photo, Sherlock was leaning forward with a hand delicately placed on John's jawline and their lips just barely brushing against each other. The second one showed John looking confused, his face lit up by the bar lights. It was undeniably John. Anyone could see that. The third photo showed the two

with their lips locked, Sherlock grabbing John closer as John's hand ran through Sherlock's curls while the other rested on Sherlock's thigh.

Fuck. He had been too intoxicated, too caught up in the kiss, to notice the way John's entire body had been thrown into the passion of the kiss. Sherlock touched the back of his head, aching with the knowledge that John's hand had been there only hours before as he grabbed at the curls and steadied himself with a hand on Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock collapsed in his chair with the photos in his hand, stunned.

But he didn't have time to be stunned. Moriarty had sent him these pictures. Moriarty had kept copies for himself. What did that mean? Probably that John Watson was in danger. And Sherlock couldn't have that. But what was he to do?

Oh, _fuck_, he thought as an idea blazed through his mind. _Fuck_.

* * *

John came home from taking a crawling Lucy to the park to find boxes stacked inside 221 Baker Street. "What's with the boxes?" John asked as he saw Sherlock quickly bustle about, looking into a few and taping others. Caught up in his work, it appeared as though he didn't hear, so John asked louder: "Sherlock? What are the boxes for?"

"I'm packing," Sherlock replied, not looking up and continuing to move about.

"Packing for what?"

"To move."

"What are you talking about? Move where?"

"Away."

"Where, Sherlock?"

He stopped moving about and let out a deep sigh. "Away. Out of London. I need to get away."

"What are you talking about? Why didn't you tell me? When are we going?"

"John, _we're_ not going anywhere. _I'm_ going. Spur of the moment decision."

"What do you mean, _we're_ not going anywhere. We go everywhere together. That's what we do. Sherlock and John. We're a team."

"John, I'm going. I need a break. Away from London, away from Baker Street. Away from you."

John stood still for a moment, looking at the ground and clenching his left fist. "This... this doesn't have anything to do with last night, does it?" he whispered, his voice shaky.

"Last night? What was last night?" Sherlock feigned, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows. "Do you mean the afternoon with Harry and Irene? No, it has nothing to do with that."

John opened his mouth as if he were going to say something, then closed it. "Well. This was really unexpected. Are you sure there's not a motive behind this that you just don't want to tell me about?"

"I'm going to the countryside. I need peace. To think. There's just so much to think about, between Lestrade and Moriarty. And drugs are frowned upon. So I thought this would be the more conventional way of finding time to calm down."

"Moriarty isn't making you do this, is he?"

"Of course not. John Watson, when have you ever known me to take orders from anyone?"

John cracked a slight smile. The two stood in awkward silence until John decided to speak up. "Need help with anything?" he asked.

A faint grin crept onto Sherlock's face. "I still need my beakers packed. If you break one, I'll kill you."

"Christ, I believe that," John replied, and followed Sherlock upstairs to help pack boxes.

* * *

Mycroft came later in the day with a moving truck and his own dark sedan. "Mycroft's here," he called out to John, who was changing a diaper.

"Wait a moment!" John shouted from another room.

But Sherlock had bounded down the stairs, kissed Mrs. Hudson goodbye, and climbed into his brother's car. The moment the door shut, the car sped off. By the time John clamored to the window, Sherlock had been whisked away.

"You will keep him safe, right?" Sherlock asked Mycroft as they veered out of sight.

"Of course. Are you going to tell me what this is about now?"

"That depends. Do I have to?"

Mycroft sighed. "I don't understand why you always have to be difficult. But yes, then, I'll be difficult too. You have to tell me, or I'll order you back to London right away."

Sherlock scoffed. "You can't order me."

"I could send you on that plane again, remember that? Now, brother dear, just tell me."

Sherlock sighed. "It's just... I can't stay there anymore. I need to get away. I need to get Moriarty away. He's too close for comfort."

"As the saying goes, keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

"Well that'd be grand if my enemies and my friends didn't interact."

"Do you think you'll draw him out? Do you think he'll follow you?"

"He's doing all this for me, Mycroft."

"The question is, Sherlock, will he follow you out or will he do something drastic to bring you back?"

"Oh, fuck," Sherlock moaned as a million possibilities swarmed through his mind. "I have to lure him out. I have to keep them safe."

"Well you better have a plan, little brother, or he's going to call checkmate."

* * *

John ran out the door in a desperate attempt to see the car leave so he could at least give an unseen wave goodbye. But it was long gone by the time he reached the empty street, pausing to catch his breath and looking forlornly at the road ahead. "Fuck," he panted, bent over after racing out and jumping down the last few steps. Sherlock was gone, so suddenly. He ran a hand through his hair as a million thoughts cascaded through his mind.

John went back inside, closing the door behind him before leaning back against it for support as he felt his knees give out. Was it actually his fault Sherlock was gone? He ran through the foggy memories of the night before, trying to recall what exactly happened. Despite his uncertainty, he was pretty certain of one thing. He touched his lips at the faint memory. If he thought hard enough, he could barely remember the taste of Sherlock's whiskey on his tongue.

John slumped to the floor in front of the door. Had he been the one to initiate the kiss? Did he scare Sherlock away? Did Sherlock remember anything? The pain in his chest was suffocating as he compared the feeling of Sherlock's lips to that of Mary's without meaning to. _That was it_, he told himself. He was lonely, so lonely after his wife's death. It had torn him apart, and Sherlock had been the one to help build him up.

But there were still so many cracks in John Watson. And it ached to wake up in the night without a warm body pressed against his side, or to hear a soft voice soothing his nightmares when he needed it. And now there were so many more nightmares. Once upon a time it had been just flashbacks of the war, of bullets whizzing and corpses stinking and grenades flashing. Then he started seeing himself strapped to a bomb jacket with the red dot of a sniper on Sherlock's forehead as Moriarty cackled in the background. Visions of Sherlock jumping off the rooftop, smashing with a sickening thud to the ground that resounded through his mind. There were the nightmares of burning alive, the flames licking at his skin as he cried out in fear, seeing Sherlock's hand reaching for him, reaching, but so far away, would it reach him?

And now there were nightmares of Mary being poisoned as a blackened substance swam through an IV into her arm, killing her and nearly killing their daughter. And there were nightmares of watching Sherlock die on a bed in a dark, abandoned warehouse as he sat helplessly, tied to a chair bolted to the floor. Nightmares, yes, but tinged with memory, making the pain and the visions feel so much more real.

Sherlock had always been there for him. Always. Since the moment he met him. There was an immediate connection between the two that John could not deny. Instantaneous best friends. Ready to face the world together. They were addicts, both of them. Addicted to the thrill of mysteries, murders, challenges. And now there was John, alone, out of nowhere. Sherlock wasn't there to pick him up, because Sherlock was the one who had just left him in pieces.

But Mary. Was that why he kissed Sherlock? As a desperate, drunken grasp for physical attention that had been absent from his life since her death? Sherlock was always the one picking up the pieces. Had John subconsciously reached out to him because he was simply convenient? The one who was always there? The one who was supposed to make everything better?

How selfish he had been, to throw himself at his best friend in a moment of desperation for any, all, physical contact. Sherlock had simply been there, within reach, and John had seized the opportunity. At the same time, it appeared, he had driven away his friend. This had to be his fault. He couldn't think of any other explanation.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson finally returned home, opening the door with some difficulty, to find John curled in front, quietly sobbing to himself.

* * *

Mycroft offered to help Sherlock pack, but desperate to get rid of his brother's company, Sherlock made a snide comment about his weight and Mycroft was off in a huff. Sherlock stood outside the small country cottage with packed boxes, wondering what to do next. He was lost, away from London, away from 221B Baker Street, away from John. It felt so wrong.

But he tried to remind himself that it was necessary. He stepped inside, leaving the boxes cluttered in front, and took in the bland little house. It wasn't home. He shut the door and slumped against it, leaning his head back and aching to hear the coos of Lucy or John telling him to shut up or Mrs. Hudson reminding him that she was just his landlady. Sentiment was getting the best of him.

Before he could properly wallow in his thoughts, he pulled out his cell phone to send a quick text.

Tea at sixteen. - SH

Then he sunk to the floor as the weight of his fears collapsed on top of him.

* * *

John stared at his phone, willing it to ring, loathing its silence. He reached out for it, hesitantly, before withdrawing his hand as if he had touched a hot stove. He repeated this action several more times over the course of half an hour before finally holding it in his hands, where he proceeded to stare blankly at it for another thirty minutes.

Eventually he caved, flipping it open and typing quickly.

1:12  
Lucy misses you. She's crying for you and I can't soothe her.

He hit send quickly before he spent another hour questioning himself and set the phone back in the middle of the table. He stared at it patiently, waiting, before growing anxious after ten minutes.

13:23  
You left before we could say goodbye.

13:24  
People typically don't leave without a goodbye.

13:30  
You always say goodbye.

13:34  
I fucked up, didn't I? Is that why you left without a goodbye?

13:40  
Dammit Sherlock, at least give me an answer!

13:45  
Sorry. I'm sorry. If I did anything, anything at all, I really truly am sorry.

13:55  
Please just say you forgive me. Or please, give me a goodbye.

14:34  
Goodbye, Sherlock. Come back to visit soon, okay?

John fell asleep that night with his phone in his hand, desperately clutching the hope of a response.

* * *

"Nice place you've got here," he said as he entered.

Sherlock turned away from his boxes to look at the visitor.

"I really didn't peg you for a country boy, though. The city seemed to suit you more."

"I wanted a change of pace."

"Change from what, may I ask?"

"Everything."

"Did he not like the kiss? He seemed quite into it."

Sherlock's face reddened against his will, and he stood still, refusing to answer.

"Well I guess he didn't. Was that your first kiss, Sherlock? Were you nervous? Did you ruin it?"

Sherlock smoothed his shirt, still trying to ignore the personal questions.

"I bet it was. Well I'll let you in on a secret. _This_," and he leaned in suddenly, grabbing Sherlock's face and passionately pressing his open lips against the taller man's, "is how you kiss." He pulled away for the last remark, leaving Sherlock stunned. "I gave you my number, didn't I? You should've called. We could have had such fun."

"I wasn't interested, Moriarty," Sherlock said flatly.

"Oh but honey, I know I fascinate you."

"Not like that."

"But John Watson does? Tell me what's so special about him, Sherlock. He's just so... _average_."

"Shut up."

"I'd like to see you make me," Moriarty smirked. "Now, where's the tea you promised?"


	9. Choices

Chapter Nine: Choices

**Author's Note: The last chapter had to be re-uploaded because I forgot to copy and paste the beginning! If you didn't read it yet, go back and look at the beginning again! I promise things will make more sense and flow better if you do.**

* * *

"How did you manage to leave behind your beloved John Watson?" Moriarty asked, sipping his tea.

"It was simple," Sherlock said, steepling his hands in front of his chin as he sat across from Jim.

"Oh, Sherlock," Moriarty cooed. "You can't lie to me. I have the photos. I know what happened. He's more than just a colleague to you."

"Really, you underestimate me. I have no feelings for John. My actions are little more than to just keep him under my thumb."

Moriarty exploded. "Stop lying! I saw the pictures, I saw you initiate the kiss!"

Sherlock pursed his lips together. "What do you want with me?" he said softly.

Moriarty let out a breath of air. "I want you to be honest with me, Sherlock," he whispered. "What's so special about John Watson? Why _him_?"

"Why not him?"

"Because he's boring. He's ordinary. Think about what _we_ could accomplish."

"I told you, I'm not interested."

Moriarty frowned. "I think you'll come to regret that, Sherlock Holmes. After I've been so good to you too."

"_Good_ to me?" Sherlock scoffed, raising his eyebrows. "You nearly killed me multiple times. That's hardly hospitality."

"If I wanted you dead, you would be dead." There was a gleam in Moriarty's eyes. "With every move I gave you a chance to escape. To prove your brilliance."

"Is that what you tell yourself, to feel better when I foil your plans?"

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," Moriarty chided. "Tell me, what has stopped me from simply putting a bullet through your thick skull? I've had quite a number of opportunities. Honestly, Sherl, a bullet into your brain would have been so simple when you were incapacitated in the warehouse."

Sherlock sat there for a moment, thinking, before asking, "What is your problem with John? Is it really necessary to put him through all these troubles along with me?"

Moriarty wrinkled his nose. "John Watson. I utterly _despise_ him. He makes you seem nearly normal. It's disgusting. Besides, he did hold a gun to my head once. And what can I say, I like holding grudges."

Sherlock sucked in his breath, not replying.

Moriarty simply looked down at his cup of tea and swirled a finger through the liquid. "So I assume you invited me here to barter," he said without looking up. "You want to know the price of keeping John Watson safe."

* * *

When John woke to the morning sun, he held Lucy tightly to his chest. A serene look occupied her face as she slept in her father's arms. He kissed her forehead as salty tears dripped onto her skin. "Don't ever grow up and leave me," he whispered. "Stay my baby girl forever."

Mary was gone. Sherlock was gone. It seemed everyone that John Watson loved was bound to leave him heartbroken. Now he clutched his daughter to his heart, willing her to stay forever in his arms. Shudders overtook his body as he gasped for air, feeling suffocated within his own body. His shoulders shook violently.

"John?" Irene appeared at the door. "John, what's wrong?"

"Oh bloody hell!" he shouted. "Like you don't know."

Irene walked over to him, her heels clicking against the floor. "What's happened, John? What is it?"

"He... He's gone," John sobbed, rocking Lucy with unsteady arms. "It's my fault he's gone. It's my fault. I lose everyone."

Irene placed a hand on John's shoulder. "John, calm down. Here. Let me hold the baby."

"Why, so you and Moriarty can take her away from me too?"

"You're shaking John," she said as she reached into his arms and pulled out Lucy with little protest. "I'm right here with her, see? We're right here. Now tell me what happened. Where has he gone?"

"I don't know where he's gone. He just... left. He won't answer my texts. And it's all my fault."

"How is it your fault, John?"

"Well... we were drunk, see, and I think I may have kissed him. I know I shouldn't have. I know he hates contact. I... I think I scared him off. I tried... I tried telling him I didn't remember anything, but I do. I remember the way he tastes. And it's haunting me. I didn't mean anything by it, I swear, it was just a kiss, and I was drunk, and I just must be missing Mary more than ever, and..."

"John, shush. Take a breath. There now. Better?"

"A little," he admitted, looking up at her through blurry eyes. "What do I do?"

"Answer this for me first. All this time after I've gone, and you two _still_ aren't in a relationship? At all?"

John's face slackened. "What?"

"Oh John," Irene chided. "He's clearly in love with you."

"Sherlock? Sherlock's incapable of feeling love. That's why he turned down your advances."

"Is it? I thought it was because he didn't want to upset his mancrush."

"Sherlock doesn't love. At least, not like that. Besides, I'm not gay."

Irene sighed. "Yes, yes, so you insist. The problem with you is that you don't see how he looks at you."

John's face reddened slightly. "We're getting off-topic. Sherlock is gone. What if he's leaving for another two years with no contact? I... I don't want to go through that again. I can't keep worrying about him. I can't."

"Relax, John. I'll figure it out." Irene handed back Lucy, noting the halted shaking of John's hands.

John reached up and pulled his daughter to his chest again. He breathed in her scent. He looked at the little ducks on her outfit. Sherlock had picked it out. "You're not working for Moriarty still, are you? Because if you are, and you dare to hurt anyone I care for, I swear..."

Irene put up a palm to cut him off. "No. I'm done with that bastard. I guess it's coincidental Harry is your sister."

"Sherlock doesn't believe in coincidences."

"Sherlock didn't believe in love either. Things change."

* * *

"So the price for John Watson," Moriarty purred, still stirring his tea with a finger. "Since he means so much to you, I'm sure he's worth a heavy price. How much do you value his life, Sherlock?"

Sherlock pursed his lips together, not responding.

"I have some ideas," Moriarty grinned, getting up and circling Sherlock. He looked the taller man up and down, then bit down on his lip. "I'm quite a bit... _curious_."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under Moriarty's gaze.

Moriarty stopped, moving to stand no more than an inch away from Sherlock. "I wonder," he breathed, "what John is missing out on?" He leaned even closer, his breath hot on Sherlock's chest. "I wonder if you'd give yourself to me, for John."

Sherlock involuntarily flinched as anxiety crept through his bloodstream.

"Or..." Moriarty said louder, backing up several steps. "You could make a different choice. Instead of you or John, how about John or the baby? Is that an easier decision?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered with hatred. He was slowly losing control of his calm demeanor.

"That's quite mean of me though, isn't it? I guess I should offer a third option. You could always kill yourself. And stay dead this time." He gave a sharp laugh and licked his lips. "I'm sure you've deduced which option I'd like you to pick," he murmured.

* * *

7:32 - Sherlock Holmes  
Where the fuck are you?

* * *

Sherlock sighed. "You win," he whispered.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"You win," he said louder. "What do you want to do to me?"

"Oh Sherlock, you want to know _what_ I'm going to do to you? I'm going to fuck your brains out and leave you begging for mercy. Twice."

"Really, why does everyone want me begging for mercy twice?"

Moriarty glared before stepping up to Sherlock and tugging his head down with his scarf. He quickly bit Sherlock's bottom lip. "Behave," he commanded.

"Do people really do that?" Sherlock asked. "It's weird."

"Yes, people do that," Moriarty said, slightly annoyed. "But I guess you wouldn't know since your virginity status is still momentarily intact."

"Ah, you were away. Haven't you heard? I'm a serial shagger. It was in the papers so it must be true."

"You're madly infuriating," Moriarty complained, pulling Sherlock's lips to his own and fiercely kissing him.

"I know," Sherlock replied with a smirk when they broke apart. "John tells me all the time."

Moriarty reeled back his arm and punched Sherlock's jaw. "Shut up!" he screamed. "Don't you dare say that name again!"

Sherlock shifted his jaw slightly. "What name?" he drawled. "John Watson?"

"Shut up!" Moriarty exploded again. This time when he went to throw a punch, Sherlock caught his fist and quickly leaned in to kiss him. He tightly gripped Moriarty's waste and dragged him slightly in his embrace towards the bedroom. Moriarty released a faint sigh when they broke apart, just before Sherlock threw him onto the bed.

Moriarty gave a crooked grin. "This is better now," he purred.

"Shut up," Sherlock demanded, throwing off his usual coat and unbuttoning his shirt with quick, precise fingers.

"I see. You like being dominant."

Sherlock threw his shirt aside and climbed onto the bed, hovering above Moriarty. He engaged the man in a passionate embrace as he traced the contours of Jim's muscles with light fingertips. Slowly he raised Moriarty's arms above his head.

"Feisty," Jim teased as Sherlock held his arms above his head.

With a swift motion, Sherlock grabbed his scarf from around his neck and quickly tied Moriarty's hands to the bedpost. He tugged hard to tighten the grip before starting to slide away. Moriarty's eyes widened with realization. He thrashed about his lower body and torso, fighting against his hold and nailing a strong kick at Sherlock's face, just below the eye.

"Sherlock!" he screamed. "I will kill you for this! I will kill you and that bloody John Watson and his rotten baby!"

Sherlock lifted his fingers to his cheekbone and pulled them away, looking at the blood that dripped. "No, you won't," he said softly. "You will never hurt my family again." He walked out of the bedroom, leaving Moriarty to his bloodcurdling screams and curses. He pulled out a box of matches from one of the cupboards and headed back to the bedroom, holding the box before his captive.

"I will burn you," Sherlock announced, malice dripping from his voice. He struck a match against the side of the box and headed towards the window, setting the curtains aflame.

Moriarty's screams and convulsions became more panicked, but Sherlock ignored them. He grabbed his coat from the floor and walked out of the house, down the long driveway hidden in the woods towards the main road that he would follow back to London. He refused to look back.

* * *

He still trudged along the road as the sun was above the horizon, tired and aching from the fight. His mouth tasted like poison as he constantly spit, trying to get the taste of Jim Moriarty out of his mouth. He could call Mycroft for a ride, but he wanted some peace before having to relay the events to his brother. Plus he wanted to edit out some details that seemed unnecessary to him. He wouldn't dare call John, after he had scrolled through all the messages on his phone. He needed to clean up before he returned home.

A moan rang from his pocket. Irene. He skimmed the message quickly.

7:33  
I need a ride. Don't tell John. -SH

He kept walking as he waited for the response, then texted directions to be picked up.

* * *

Moriarty watched the flames lap at the curtains, incinerating all in their path. He had always admired fire and the way it burned all in its path. A reckless monster raging with chaos, partial to none. It was always hungry for more destruction. Jim Moriarty was the embodiment of fire. And now it was coming to get him. With begrudging admiration for Sherlock Holmes, he noted the poetic feel of his fate.

But he wasn't leaving without a struggle. It had been a mistake coming alone this one time, but he was selfish. He had wanted Sherlock all to himself, without any observers. A dark secret to carry. He loved dark secrets, as long as they were his own or allowed him to manipulate others. He fought against the scarf, but damn was the knot secure. The flames kept creeping closer. The fire alarm blared overhead.

And then, he heard it. The snap of wood. The sound of the headboard bar breaking. A smile crept across his face, spreading from ear to ear. With a loud cackle he pulled harder, relishing the sharp crack and the give of the bar as his hands were now in front of his face. He could easily work the scarf off by rubbing it against a tree branch. Tedious. But he was going to live another day.

Moriarty swaggered out of the burning building, breathing in the sweet smell of failed murder.


	10. Heads Will Roll

Chapter Ten: Heads Will Roll

"Get in," Irene demanded, pulling her car alongside Sherlock. He climbed into the passenger seat. "You look like shit."

"I feel like shit," he complained. "Do you have a cigarette? I could use one."

She motioned to her bag between the seats with her eyes as she pulled back onto the highway. "In there. Are you going to tell me what happened? Or why you're suddenly trusting me to drive you away in my car after your outburst the last time we met?"

Sherlock pulled out the box of matches from his coat and lit the cigarette. He took a deep drag before replying. "Moriarty's dead. So if he paid you to do anything, you really don't have to. And since I saved your life once, I'd really appreciate if you didn't."

Irene paled and gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Dead? Is he really dead this time?" She cast a curious glance towards Sherlock.

"Yeah, dead. Can we leave it at that for now?"

"What the fuck happened? Is that why you look awful?"

"I really don't want to talk about it right now," Sherlock sighed. "I just want to go home. How's John?"

"Bloody awful," she replied. "What were you thinking, leaving him like that? And not answering his messages?"

"I was trying to protect him," Sherlock murmured.

"And who's going to protect him from himself if you're gone?"

Sherlock sat up straight at that. "He didn't... try... you know... again? Please say he didn't."

"No, he just had an emotional breakdown at your kitchen table. Text him now."

"Saying what?"

"That you're sorry, and you're coming home."

"I... I don't know if I could go back home, actually. I was thinking of staying at Lestrade's."

"Sherlock, stop being a drama queen. Why wouldn't you go home?"

"Because then I have to see him," Sherlock whispered. "And remember. And it hurts."

Irene let out a loud breath. "You're still being a drama queen. I don't have time for that bullshit. Straight answers."

"I kissed him," Sherlock admitted. "I kissed John Watson. 'Not gay' John Watson."

"Mhm, I heard. Actually, I heard he kissed you. But your point is?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Who the hell told you?"

"John. Really, Sherlock, you're off your game today. Keep up please. It's annoying when you're slow."

"Why did he tell you?"

"Because I was looking for you and I walked in on his crying fest. He thinks you left because he kissed you and you hated it or some bullshit. Honestly, I think everyone knew you two were gay for each other _except_ you two."

"He's not gay though. He had a wife."

"Oh, stop being emotional. It makes you dense. Eleanor Roosevelt was married to a man but she was a lesbian, wasn't she? Really Sherlock. What the fuck happened while you were out?"

"Fine, I'll go home. I'll text him now."

"You better or I'll kick you out and make you walk the rest of the way."

* * *

John nearly jumped when his phone rang. He looked down to see Sherlock's name appear. His heart fluttered in his chest as he opened it nervously, anticipating the worst but hoping for the best.

17:42  
I'll be home tonight. Sorry for leaving abruptly. I'll explain later. SH

John let out a sigh of relief and stared at the screen for several minutes just to make sure he was reading it right. A smile crept onto his face at the relief of Sherlock's return, but he was still cautious, unnerved by the fact that he had left in the first place.

17:49  
Is Chinese okay for dinner?

17:52  
Yes. I'll pay. SH

* * *

"You look really dumb smiling at your phone like that," Irene commented. "What did John say?"

"We're having Chinese."

She shook her head. "You two are hopeless."

"Hopeless?" Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Just like that, you're planning what to eat. As if nothing happened. As if you aren't sitting in my car right now missing your shirt after an unexpected disappearance."

"But we like Chinese," Sherlock said, blinking.

"If I ever did something like that to Harry, we wouldn't be offering each other Chinese. We'd be offering each other makeup sex."

Sherlock turned to look out the window to hide the smirk that came to his face as his mind buzzed with Irene's words. He bit his bottom lip, wondering what that'd be like with John, then mentally chided himself for allowing such ideas.

Irene glanced over and smiled.

* * *

19:21 - John Watson  
Tell me you're alive.

19:23  
Of course I'm alive. SH

19:26 - John Watson  
Tell me something only Sherlock would know or say.

19:28  
Mary picked the name Lucy because it was her actual sister's name. SH

19:30 - John Watson  
When will you be home?

19:31  
Ten minutes. Why? SH

19:33 - John Watson  
You need to get here right now.

19:34  
What's going on? Are you alright? SH

19:37 - John Watson  
Greg's here. Just... hurry up.

* * *

Irene parked a few blocks away from Baker Street and Sherlock ran the rest of the way. He started sprinting once he saw the flashing lights and police tape in front of his flat. "John!" he shouted. "John, what happened?"

Mrs. Hudson reached Sherlock first, tears streaking her makeup. "Oh Sherlock, it's terrible!"

"Is John alright? Is Lucy okay?" He grabbed her shoulders, searching her face for any clues.

"They're fine dear, they are, but... oh!" and she let out a giant sob.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock spun towards the direction of John's voice. "John?"

John popped out from behind a police officer with Lucy in his arms, unharmed. "Christ, it's good to see you," he said, wrapping his free arm around Sherlock in a welcoming embrace.

Sherlock moved his arms around John, breathing in his lavender shampoo. "I'm sorry I was gone," he breathed.

John broke away from the embrace. "Yeah, well, we can talk about that later. You need to see this first." He started walking towards the flat, and Sherlock followed behind. John stopped at the door. "Just... just go inside, okay? I don't want to go back in there again."

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look before stepping through the doorway and heading towards the noise upstairs. He walked into his living room to see Lestrade and several others standing there, scribbling on pads and taking lots of photographs. Lestrade turned to the sound of Sherlock's footsteps.

"Oh good, you're here," the detective inspector said, clapping a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I think we found out what our beheader was up to."

Lestrade moved to the side. Sherlock's eyes were greeted by an obscene sight. Heads, severed from their bodies, lined against the wall. The first was a gray-haired man closely resembling John. The second was a redheaded woman, and the third was a petit old lady. The next head had silver hair the color of Lestrade's and was placed beside a woman's with short-cropped blonde hair. The final two heads made Sherlock's vision begin to spin slightly. It was the baby, and a man with a dark, curly-haired wig upon his head. Beside the last head was a notecard that simply said "Kisses" in the familiar scrawl Sherlock had quickly come to resent.

"Not... not possible," Sherlock breathed, reaching out to grasp Lestrade's shoulder for support.

"What is it? Do you know what this is?"

"John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson. You. Mary. Lucy. Me." Sherlock choked on the words as they burned like acid from his throat.

"Pardon?"

"Don't you see, Lestrade? It's us! It's all of us. All the people that matter to me, represented by these heads." He hunched over and threw up, just missing Lestrade's shoes.

"Fuck, Sherlock," Lestrade said, beginning to look queasy himself. "It's him, isn't it? Is this some kind of sick sign?"

"It... it can't be. He's dead. He died."

"Then who the fuck put these heads in your flat while John went out to get Chinese? He's not dead. We know that already."

"But... but I killed him. Last night. I killed him."

Lestrade sucked in his breath. "Let's take you outside, okay? I think you need some air."

"I killed him, Lestrade. He burned. I set the house on fire."

"I think we need to talk about this when you calm down more, okay?"

"He's dead! He's fucking dead! He can't keep doing this! It's not fair!" Sherlock's voice boomed loud, causing everyone in the room to turn and stare. Lestrade tried vainly to get him to relax.

"Sherlock?" John called, coming up the stairs. "I heard you shouting."

Sherlock took two long strides to meet John halfway and threw his arms around him, nuzzling his face in John's hair. He didn't care about everyone around him. He didn't care if John was gay or straight. He needed him in that instant, needed to breath him in and feel him physically in his arms, to know he was okay and safe. Tears dropped off his face into John's hair as he silently sobbed.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, resting his head on the taller man's chest. "It's Moriarty again. I recognized the handwriting," John whispered into Sherlock's bare chest peeking through his coat.

Sherlock just nodded against John's head. "I know," he whispered. "I know."

"We'll get him, Sherlock," John murmured. "We'll stop him. It's gonna be alright."

Sherlock didn't answer. He wasn't certain anymore.


	11. Secrets to be Told

Chapter 11: Secrets to be Told

"I'm not staying at Mycroft's."

"Our flat is a crime scene full of heads, Sherlock! We can't stay there."

"I'll sleep on the street."

"No, we're not doing this again. I told you already, it's not proper to be living on the street when your brother has a perfectly fine room at his house waiting for you."

"I don't care."

"Well, I have a baby, Sherlock," John huffed. "I'm not living on the streets. And it'd be rude to take Mycroft's offer without you. He's only inviting me because he wants you to stay."

"He just wants to micromanage me," Sherlock complained, folding his arms across his chest.

"Well, here's a grand notion that might be a little hard for you to wrap your head around, but have you ever considered that he might actually care about you? You are his brother."

"Ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed.

"Dammit, Sherlock, why is it so hard for you to believe there are people who care about you?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. He pursed his lips in a tight line.

"You're reckless, and sporadic, and immature. You turn to drugs instead of turning to your friends. There are people who would never turn their back on you, so don't you dare turn your back on them when they're only doing what they can to look out for you."

Sherlock uncomfortably shifted his gaze away, and John let out a sigh.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I know you're going through a hard time right now. I see that. I'm just worried about you Sherlock. And I think maybe it'd be safer if we crashed at your brother's for a bit. I don't want you on the streets and dabbling in drugs again. And... I feel safer with you around. Please. For me."

Sherlock thought back to Irene's words. _Who's going to save him from himself if you're gone?_ "Okay," he said.

John blinked. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock shifted his eyes to look at John again. "I said okay. We'll go to Mycroft's."

"Thank you," John whispered, and hugged Sherlock with the arm that wasn't holding Lucy. The baby smiled up at Sherlock, reaching out for his curly hair with chubby hands. He smiled back at her and kissed her forehead. Mycroft may be his brother, but here was his family. And he'd do nearly anything for them.

* * *

"Sorry, John, there's only one guest room," Mycroft said without sympathy. "But there's two beds in there, and I'd really prefer if you two would keep off my couch."

Sherlock glanced at his brother. He knew there was another empty room down the hall, but he didn't say anything. This was Mycroft's way of keeping a watch on him, but he was too exhausted to argue and didn't want to upset John. Besides, they shared a flat together. It couldn't be that big of a deal to share a room together. They did have separate beds.

"Thank you," John told Mycroft as he guided them through the house. Lucy was sleeping in his arms, her face pressed against his jacket. Sherlock looked at her with a pang. The girl he loved more than any other in the world was only a few months old and yet had gone through so much. He could only hope she was too young to remember the hard times now and enjoy the better ones he wanted in her future. Not everyone remembered their very early years like he did, right?

Sherlock noted grimly that Mycroft had purchased a crib to place in the room. While John would appreciate the gift, he knew it was Mycroft's way of saying Sherlock was on lockdown. They'd be there for a while. John carefully placed Lucy into the crib before taking the right bed, sitting on the edge with his hands in his head. Sherlock flopped onto the left mattress.

"So," John said, rubbing his eyes with his palms, "are you going to tell me what happened? Why you were gone?"

Sherlock sighed. "I really don't want to talk about it tonight. Tomorrow?"

John clasped his hands on his knees and turned to look at Sherlock. "All you do is keep secrets, and it's frustrating."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured up at the ceiling.

"But really you're not," John reprimanded. "Why don't you tell me? Do you not trust me?"

Sherlock rolled onto his side to stare at John. "It's not that," he admitted. "I... You're my best friend. And I love Lucy more than anyone else in the world. You two mean everything to me. I don't want anything bad to happen." It came out in a shaky whisper. Sherlock felt strange, recognizing and admitting the side to him he tried to keep hidden, even from himself.

"Well I want to help." John looked back at him, into his blue-gray eyes. "You don't have to protect me. I've been to war. I've been shot. I saw my best friend jump off a building and disappear for two years. I've handled the death of my wife. I've been strapped to bombs and tied to chairs. Maybe... Okay, I haven't handled all of those situations very gracefully, but I get through. I don't want to be protected. I want to get through. I want to know."

Sherlock could tell by the look on John's face that this wasn't a matter of discussion. John was telling him how it would be. Sherlock grinned inwardly, appreciating the moments John took to stand up and lead. It was the soldier coming out in him.

"Alright," Sherlock answered. "But I'm tired. Can we talk about this tomorrow?" He pulled off his coat and rummaged through the bag of clothes he had brought, looking for pajamas. His back was turned to John when he heard a sharp intake of breath.

"Sherlock, where'd you get those scars?" John asked.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied.

"The scars. All over your back. Like you had deep gashes that healed."

"Well, yeah. I did."

"What?" John exclaimed. "When was this?" Sherlock was nearly always covered. The last time John had seen his bare back, there hadn't been any scars.

"It was awhile ago," Sherlock said, not turning around. "When I was gone, after the whole staged-death thing. I was taking down Moriarty's system in eastern Europe. I was kinda hung by my wrists and whipped at one point." He heard John get up but didn't dare look at him.

Sherlock shuddered slightly when he felt John's fingers tracing the scars on his back. He pursed his lips shut, not daring to speak. He could feel John's breath on his skin when he murmured, "Sherlock."

His back tensed as his hands tightly gripped his pajama shirt. He was fighting the sudden urge to spin around and kiss John, with only the bitter memory of the last time still in his mind halting his desires. He could feel the delicate touch of the doctor's hands examining his body. He wondered if John could hear the fast-paced beating of his heart or how labored his breath had become.

"I... I'm going to change now," Sherlock managed, pulling away regretfully from John's touch. He walked out of the room and headed towards the bathroom, letting out a sigh once he locked the door behind him.

When he walked out of the bathroom, Mycroft was waiting for him. "Like your accommodations?" Mycroft asked with a smirk.

"What is it now," Sherlock complained. "I'm tired."

"Well you did have me track John, to keep him safe, so I know what happened. Even if you didn't want to tell me."

Sherlock felt his nerves go cold. "What are you talking about?"

Mycroft leaned in to whisper in his brother's ear. "The kiss, Sherlock. What were you thinking?"

Sherlock shoved Mycroft away. "We're not discussing this." He started storming off to the bedroom.

"You're getting reckless, Sherlock," Mycroft called to him.

"And you don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock replied, turning down the hall and out of Mycroft's sight.

It took some effort to not slam shut the bedroom door. When he returned, John was curled up under the sheets. Sherlock looked at him sullenly before climbing into his own bed and trying to relax. But being under Mycroft's constant stare was unnerving.

* * *

That night, John didn't have the regular nightmares he was expecting. Surprisingly, there were no heads or bombs or any physical danger at all. In fact, the dream had been oddly pleasant. It had begun as innocent, as he traced the scars across Sherlock's back. Raised flesh on pale skin. He was simply curious, learning the dangers Sherlock had faced while away for two years.

Then the dream shifted. The lighting was dark and a telly blared football in the background. He was sitting at a bar, but was facing Sherlock. And then he found his fingers tangled in Sherlock's hair as their tongues entwined. And he was enjoying it. Really enjoying it. A small voice said "it must be the alcohol" but his body disagreed and his heart beat rapidly with excitement. Slowly his hands began to wander across Sherlock's chest, and the curiosity in him thought of going lower. He moved a hand to Sherlock's thigh, slowly inching it forward, closer, closer, closer...

And then he woke with a start. John looked over to see Sherlock still asleep in the bed next to him. His mind wandered to how good Sherlock looked when he was resting, the wrinkles smoothing out of his face. John quickly reeled back his thoughts. With a groan he acknowledged his body's ache for desire and contact. _This is Sherlock I'm thinking about_, he criticized himself. But then his mind just echoed one word from that sentence: _Sherlock._

* * *

"Morning," John said as Sherlock walked bleary-eyed into the kitchen with only pajama bottoms on. John sucked in his breath when he looked up, taking in the sight of Sherlock's muscled chest. He quickly spooned a mouthful of porridge into his mouth to shut himself up, mentally criticizing his reaction. It must have been an aftereffect of the stupid dream from last night.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and looked down at John. "Where's Mycroft?" he asked.

"Out. Work, I think."

"Good." Sherlock grabbed bread to put in the toaster.

John waited patiently for the toast to pop up and for Sherlock to sit down across the table from him before he asked his question. "So... uh... do I get answers now?"

Sherlock had the slice of toast halfway to his mouth when John spoke. He sighed and put it back on his plate. He ran a hand through his messy curls and John tried to ignore the heat that rose to his face at the motion. "Yeah, I guess," Sherlock breathed, staring down at his plate. "Where should I start?"

"How about telling me why you left suddenly?" John winced at his own question. He knew his own fears about the answer, and gripped the table to steady himself. He didn't want Sherlock confirming those fears.

Sherlock bit his lip and looked up at John. He rarely looked as uncomfortable as he did right then. John's gut began to sink rapidly. "I..." Sherlock began. "I got a threat from Moriarty. I thought if I left, and I dragged him out of London with me, I could... uh... limit the collateral damage he'd do."

"That was fucking stupid." John barely registered the words leaving his mouth.

"Yeah, probably." Sherlock looked back down at his plate again. "Yeah. I guess it was."

"You could've answered my texts," John carried on, reliving the emotional rollercoaster he had experienced at Sherlock's departure.

Sherlock sighed. "Look, John, the whole thing was fucking stupid. Everything I'm going to say is fucking stupid. I was fucking stupid. Can we... just put that aside for right now? You can yell at me after."

John shifted in his chair. "Alright." He looked guiltily down at his bowl.

Sherlock nodded. "Alright, so I was being my fucking stupid self and staying in a house in the countryside. And I invited Moriarty over..."

"You did what?" John spluttered.

Sherlock glared at him. "We just went over this," he complained. "So I invited Moriarty over, and he threatened me in his Moriarty way, and we got into a fight, and I ended up tying him up with my scarf to the bed."

John could feel himself blushing profusely at the thought of Sherlock and Moriarty fighting on a bed. In his head it looked less like a violent fight and more like... he didn't want to think about it.

"Why are you looking at me like- oh, never mind," Sherlock commented at John's changed expression with a wave of his hand. "Then I happened to be in a particularly bad mood so I lit the house on fire and assumed he was dead. Then I came home. Then I saw the heads, and knew he wasn't dead."

"That wasn't very elaborate," John commented with a hint of suspicion in his voice.

Sherlock sighed. "Does it need to be? It's easily one of my most regrettable moments. I'm a genius. I hardly have spurts of utter stupidity, so I'd rather not dwell on them."

John could feel the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile. Sherlock and his ego. It was more fragile than he'd ever admit. "Okay," John complied. "It's fine." But in his mind he still had so many questions. He just thought it'd be better to keep them to himself than risk driving away Sherlock again. It was that kiss. He was still feeling guilty about that kiss.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, scanning John's face. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"No, you definitely think something's wrong with my story. What is it?"

John didn't say anything.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I don't want you to feel like I'm lying to you. It'll only cause unnecessary tension. Ask me anything and I'll tell you."

John mulled over the words in his mind. He really didn't want to upset Sherlock. "Do you know if the earth revolves around the sun, or is it the other way around?" he asked with a slight grin. A piece of toast whizzed past his head.

"Shut up," Sherlock said, breaking out into a smile himself.

* * *

Okay, he hadn't told John the entire truth, or the exact truth. But it was mostly the truth, and he really didn't want to add any details he deemed unnecessary. Such as kissing Moriarty. Totally unimportant.

Well, really he didn't want John knowing he had kissed another man. It would make their kiss seem... less significant. Yes, he had kissed Janine in front of John and staged an entire relationship for a case. But that was different. Janine wasn't Moriarty. Janine hadn't threatened the ones he cared about, and Sherlock didn't want John to think he regularly went around kissing guys. He didn't regularly go around kissing anyone. And only the kiss with John had mattered.

His head was pounding. There were so many things wrong at once. He couldn't express his growing attraction to John. He was stuck in bloody Mycroft's house. And fucking Moriarty was alive and planning his funeral. If he believed in karma, he didn't understand why solving murders and putting criminals behind bars was giving him such bad luck. Okay, he had some blood on his hand, but he had never attacked anyone who hadn't attacked him first.

Sherlock looked across the table at John's smirk. It was beautiful and he hated it. It was the same half-smile he saw in his dreams that caused him to wake up with his lower half demanding attention. It was not an issue Sherlock was used to. Even more disturbing was his growing desire for those moments. John Watson was affecting him mentally and physically in ways he could never imagine.

"I can't believe you just threw your toast at me," John laughed. The sound sent a warm shiver throughout Sherlock.

He flashed John a smile. "I can't believe I missed your head."

"You're a jerk." John scooped his spoon into his porridge and pulled back on the end, sending food catapulting across the table at Sherlock, who quickly dodged the attack.

So much for breakfast. He ripped off a piece of toast and flung it at John, hitting his nose.

"You bastard! You buttered your toast!" John chuckled, wiping the greasy remnants off his face. "I'll get you for that."

"I'm glad you shoot a gun better than you throw things," Sherlock taunted.

John shook his head. "Why do I put up with you?"

Sherlock felt a pang in his gut. Why did John put up with him? He knew John was joking, but it was a question that occasionally crossed his mind. He forced a smile and stood up. "As much as I love vandalizing Mycroft's kitchen, I really need to shower," he said, excusing himself and walking swiftly to the bathroom.

He locked the door behind him and groaned into his hands. Fucking John Watson. He stripped off his clothes and hopped into a steaming hot shower, trying to wash away all the memories that haunted him.


End file.
